Shell Game (9 page)

She was back. Back from the edge of the abyss of depression that had gripped her for almost two weeks. Moping about and feeling sorry for herself was something Taylor was unaccustomed to. She had taken her share of hits over the course of thirty-seven years and this was simply one more. G-cubed was her creation, built from the ground up. If she could do it once, she could do it again. The steely resolve that had given her direction and tenacity through the tough times in her life was ebbing back into her cells. She could feel the strength returning. She was physically stronger and mentally much more aware of what was happening. Strangely enough, she credited Alan's job loss as the catalyst she had needed to wake up.

His unemployment was a sign that they had bottomed out. The business, the house, and now their last source of income—all gone. There was no place to go but up. Starting from scratch at almost forty years old wasn't her idea of success, but at least she and Alan were tackling it together. To her, that was the key. There was something about two people attacking a problem together that diminished the size of the mountain. Maybe the mountain was crumbling a bit.

Sam Morel had called Saturday night while she and Alan were working through the offer on the house with their Realtor. His computer wizard had managed to pull something off a hard drive from one of Brand's computers. Something about Mexico. Nothing definite, but the drive had contained the names of a few banks and possibly even an account number or two. Just the fact that he had something was a boost. Whether that would ever translate to them getting all or part of their money back was another story. She wasn't holding her breath.

There was a low sound from the hall, and she glanced away from the street scene. Alan was leaning on the door jamb between the hall and the living room. He wore a white housecoat and the hint of a smile.

“Thinking?” he asked. His voice carried in the quiet house.

She nodded. “Thinking how lucky I am,” she said, locking eyes with him. He didn't show surprise.

“It's good to have you back,” he said, making his way into the room and sitting beside her so their hips were touching. He rubbed her calf and looked out the window. “You okay with the price we got for the house?”

“Sure,” she said. “It was exactly what the Realtor thought. No surprises. I like that.”

He gently squeezed her calf. “You look great.”

“That's because I've already had two cups of coffee. You want some?”

“I'll get it,” he said. “You want some more?”

She nodded and handed him her cup. He disappeared into the kitchen for a minute then returned with two steaming mugs. They drank the coffee and watched the activity outside their window for a few minutes. Then he said, “What do you think of Sam Morel's new information?”

She took a moment before answering. “I'm not getting my hopes up, but I like it. Any news is good news. The fact that they uncovered something about banks is probably the best we could hope for.”

“He said it was unusual that they would use Mexican banks,” Alan said. “One of the Caribbean countries was more likely.” He sipped his coffee. “I wonder why they did that. I mean, they think about every detail, leave no paper trail that would lead back to them, then use a bank in a country with strong ties to the United States. It doesn't make sense.”

Taylor was thoughtful. “No, it doesn't. Maybe the money's not there. Maybe it's a decoy.”

It was Alan's turn to ponder. “Maybe,” he said slowly, “but I don't know. Without Sam Morel's connections, the computers would have come on the market and been sold without anyone the wiser. The information they retrieved was on hard drives that had been wiped clean. That's a lot of hoops to jump through for planted information.”

“I suppose. They would have made it easier to find the ties to the banks if that's what they wanted. That means the information Sam has is probably legit.”

“That's good,” Alan said, running his hand up her thigh. She smiled. “You know, we can always hope.”

“That and get out there and earn some more money.”

“You got something on the go?” he asked.

“Nick Adams offered me a senior position. I think I'll take it.”

Alan raised an eyebrow. “You never said anything.”

She gave him a quick grin. “I didn't want you to get all excited in case I turned him down. We've been competitors for quite a few years now.”

Alan finished the last of his coffee. “Well, it doesn't surprise me that he'd make you an offer. He knows your abilities.”

She nodded. “It's a good offer.” She grasped his hand. “We're taking almost seven hundred thousand out of the house sale, and he's offering me one-eighty a year plus bonuses. We're going to be okay.”

He saw the spark in her eyes and knew that his wife had returned. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “We're going to be okay.”

C
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WELVE

New York was unseasonably cold for the last week of September and a few of the trees in Central Park were showing color. Alicia Walker loved autumn but detested winter. The advent of fall stirred up a conundrum of mixed emotions and left her emotionally confused, sometimes almost exhausted. The slight chill in the air was invigorating, but her mind often skittered ahead to scenes of snow blanketing the trees and pathways that ran through the park's rolling hills. It was a vexing time of year.

Alicia unhooked the shoulder strap and let her briefcase drop on the park bench. She unzipped the side compartment and pulled out a blue file folder. Inside were eight pages of typed text, single spaced in twelve-point font. Her new assignment. She skimmed over the first two pages, mostly background material she was already familiar with, then concentrated on the material that was new to her.

The assignment was a bit of a step outside the box for the Bureau. It was a joint effort with the Department of Homeland Security, which had insisted on retaining control of the operation. Alicia was surprised her superiors had agreed to lend her out on the conditions DHS was imposing. But given the scope of the sting, she could see their willingness to cooperate. Ahmed al-Jawahari was an American citizen of Iranian descent with questionable ties to al-Qaeda. DHS suspected him of being a major fundraiser for a handful of terrorist cells operating inside the United States. But al-Jawahari was also a well-respected citizen and prominent New York lawyer. Bashing down his front door and riffling through his files was not the way to bring him down. They needed someone on the inside. And that's where Alicia Walker figured in.

Al-Jawahari had one extra large skeleton in his closet. He was into bondage and sado-masochism. No sex, just the kinky stuff that involved leather outfits, whips and handcuffs. He often invited the women who indulged his fantasies back to his office for a quick session on the couch. Alicia Walker was being planted in the agency's inventory—her specialty being bondage without sex. It was inevitable she would end up in al-Jawahari's office. Which meant she needed to have a completely new background. A life totally different from her own. That information, and a condensed version of her target's life, were inside the blue file folder.

She spent an hour reviewing the details, then closed the file and slipped it back in her briefcase. The sun was just setting, another Monday drawing to a close. She exited the park at East Fifty-ninth and flagged a cab. She was hungry and had the cabbie drop her at The Red Cat, a trendy restaurant surrounded by art galleries that was only a few blocks from her townhouse. She ordered the roast chicken and flipped through a well-used copy of the
Times
. The meal was excellent, and she left the restaurant feeling full and a bit sleepy. A hot bath was foremost on her mind when she slipped the key in her lock and opened her front door. Her townhouse was peaceful and quiet after the constant noise and congestion of the city streets. She headed to the bathroom and turned on the water. Steam rose from the tub as it filled. She closed the door to keep the warmth in and undressed.

She pulled her hair into a ponytail and secured it with a scrunchy, then lowered herself into the water. Her gun was on the floor next to the tub, and she reached over and slid it out of its holster, then set it in the wall cavity next to the tub. She closed her eyes and slid her bottom down the tub, bending her knees and letting the water cover her shoulders. The warmth felt good after the September chill. A slight noise from just outside the bathroom startled her, and her eyes flicked open. She pushed her feet against the end of the tub, her shoulders and chest rising quickly above the water. A second later the door crashed open. Tony Stevens was framed in the doorway. In his right hand was a Colt revolver. The hammer was cocked, the gun ready to fire. For a second there was complete silence.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Alicia said, her arms and hands resting on the edge of the tub. Her left hand was inches from her gun, hidden behind the shower curtain. She made no attempt to cover herself.

“Don't move,” Tony said, taking two steps into the room. “Don't move a fucking muscle.”

“Tony, what the hell are you doing in here? This is my house. My bathroom. You have no right to be here. And what's with the gun?” Her mind was racing, thinking of some way to distract him. Anything to get her hand on her Glock.

“You bitch. You goddamn bitch. You're FBI.” The gun was leveled at her chest, his hand shaking slightly from the weight.

She had to make a decision. There were two ways to play this out. One was to deny his accusations, the other to admit she was with the Bureau and play the 'shoot a cop and you're in a lot of shit' card. Her decision was quick.

“You don't want to do this, Tony. The guys I work with at the Bureau won't stop until they've tracked you down. They will not stop. Ever.”

Sweat trickled down his forehead, and he used his free hand to wipe it away before it dripped in his eyes. “You have no idea who I am. You can't find a ghost.”

“Are you kidding?” she said, sitting up a bit, the water lapping on the edge of the tub as she moved. She saw his finger tighten on the trigger. “Right now you and your buddies are wanted for stealing money from rich people. I'm not saying that what you've done is okay, but the resources the Bureau is going to put on that is absolutely nothing compared to what will happen if you pull that trigger. You can't kill an FBI agent and expect to get away with it. There's not a chance in hell, Tony.”

“I don't have a choice,” he said, his hand shaking more now. He sounded unsure.

“Edward Brand?” she asked. He didn't answer, but his eyes told her what she needed to know. “We can protect you, Tony. You work with us and we'll put Brand away for life. He'll never be able to touch you.”

“I'm going to jail no matter what,” Stevens said. “You can't stop that. Even if I rat him out I'm still going to prison.”

He was right, and she knew it. “We have resources you can't even imagine,” she said, shifting again in the water. He didn't react to her movement this time. Next time her hand was going for her gun.

“Do you have the ability to kill him?” Tony asked. “Because that's the only way you're going to keep Edward Brand from finding me and killing me.”

“We can get you into the Witness Protection Program, Tony. We can drop you so deep in some remote corner of the country that he'll never find you. Never. And you get to live out your life in some quaint little town while he rots in jail. We've got that kind of power, Tony.”

He shook his head slightly, a glazed look in his eyes. “No, it won't work. He'll get me. I know this man. He's absolutely ruthless. You don't know him, Alicia.” His eyes locked with hers. “Jesus Christ, why did you have to get involved?”

She knew the moment. The guy with the gun who doesn't want to pull the trigger but knows he has to. She was down to her last few seconds of life. She shifted again, this time her left hand grasping the Glock. She bent her wrist, the barrel of the gun now protruding from the cavity. Decision time. And only milliseconds to make it. She angled the gun upward and pulled the trigger.

Both guns fired at exactly the same moment, deafening roars in the small room. Her bullet tore into his chest, deflecting slightly off one of his ribs but smashing into his heart and tearing the left ventricle apart. He spun back into the wall and dropped in a heap on the floor.

His bullet hit Alicia in the upper neck, ripping through her muscle and severing the carotid artery. Blood spurted from the wound and she dropped her gun and clutched at the gaping hole. She tried to rise from the water but the trauma was too great. She felt her strength ebbing quickly as she bled out. Her hands slowly dropped from her neck into the water. She needed a phone. She needed to call for help. Now.

She could feel the water on her lips and closed her mouth, breathing through her nose. The water rose as her legs bent and she slid further down in the tub. She willed her knees to lock and keep her head above the water, but even the simplest commands weren't getting through. The water crested her nose and washed into her lungs. Her eyes were still open as they slowly slid beneath the surface of the water. She had one last thought before darkness enveloped her.

What a strange way to die.

C
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HIRTEEN

Taylor and Alan received the call from Special Agent Brent Hawkins at eight o'clock Tuesday morning. Their presence was required at the San Francisco district office. Immediately. They traveled together in Taylor's Audi, arriving at just after nine. The receptionist took their names, had them sign in and placed a call. Hawkins's partner, John Abrams, came out to meet them. He didn't offer his hand, just gave them a curt “good morning” and pointed to the door he had entered from. They followed him down a carpeted hallway that was like the spine of a fish carcass with a myriad of other halls, branching off it. They reached one of the halls, and Abrams turned, opening the first door on the left. He waved them in.