Blood Trust

THIRTY

THE SAFEHOUSE was a three-story building on the corner of a quiet residential street. An alley along one side revealed a wall almost completely covered with mature ivy vines. There was a streetlight at the rear, but it wasn’t on. The other side of the house overlooked a narrow, heavily shaded street. The windows had been boarded up. At the rear was what looked and smelled like an open sewer. As they had crossed the city, they had observed periodic blackouts; many of the intersections were in chaos. Homemade banners announced student protests starting at dawn.

“There’s only one way to do this,” Alli said when she, Thatë, and Vasily had completed their surveillance circuit of Xhafa’s safehouse. “You take me in.”

“Impossible,” Thatë said at once.

Vasily watched the two of them with complete impassivity.

“The place is a virtual fortress,” Alli said. “There’s only one way in or out. What’s our other alternative, to let Vasily bull his way in?”

Thatë licked his lips nervously.

“As far as these people know you’re part of Xhafa’s American operation. You have the medallion, you know the code words. You’ll bring me in as a new cherry.”

Thatë grinned suddenly. “More like a cherry bomb.”

Alli turned to Vasily. “Do you have a better idea?”

“Once you’re inside, I can’t help you,” he said.

“But you can,” Alli said. “Give us—what, Thatë?—fifteen minutes, then create a diversion.”

“A big one,” Thatë added.

Vasily flexed his muscles and hefted the flamethrower he’d salvaged from the military vehicle. “No fucking problem.”

“Okay, then.” Thatë glanced from one to the other. “Let’s synchronize watches.”

WHEN ALAN Fraine was a decade younger, he was a successful hostage negotiator. Before that, he was the best sharpshooter Metro had seen for more than twenty years. People inside the department still talked about him and the string of astonishing hits he’d made without ever harming a civilian even though some of them were standing right next to or right in front of his target.

Stepping up off the street had been a mixed blessing. It had brought with it a higher salary, an entrée into the inner circle of Metro police, as well as an opportunity to come to the mayor’s attention, never a bad thing in the highly politicized atmosphere of D.C. Occasionally, though, when he played poker with the mayor, or with his belly full with rich food, he felt a shadow of sadness pass through him, as memories of his salad days surfaced, and he turned briefly melancholy.

Following his electrifying phone conversation with Dennis Paull, he’d got to work, pulling together a team of experts from all divisions of Metro—a half-dozen men he knew personally and trusted implicitly.

They had no difficulty locating John Pawnhill. Almost immediately, they reported that he was traveling with a crew of three—an antisurveillance team. So he ordered his men up onto the rooftops. He himself and one of his team rode Harleys, dressed in Hell’s Angels leathers they had borrowed from the impound room at HQ.

The moment Pawnhill pick-locked his way into Billy Warren’s building, Fraine gave the order for his men to go to work. In short order, they had picked up all three of Pawnhill’s men. He spent a fruitless thirty minutes interrogating them.

“This is useless, they won’t give me anything,” he said when he’d turned away from the third of the men. “Tony, take them down to HQ for arraignment.”

“On what charge?” Tony said.

“Suspicion of terrorism,” Fraine said. “A matter of national security, so no calls whatsoever.”

“Got it.” Tony passed them off to the patrol officers they’d called in.

“Go with them,” Fraine said. “I don’t want any fuckups.”

“Yessir.”

Fraine returned his attention to the rear of Billy Warren’s building. Then a thought struck him and he turned back. “Tony, on second thought keep them here. I want them in a lineup.”

Tony laughed.

THATË’S ABSOLUTE calmness served to keep Alli’s mind clear as they approached the front of the safehouse. Apart from the two men lounging on the steps, it didn’t look much different than the other residences on this fringe of the city.

The guards rose, their bodies tensing, as Thatë approached with Alli in tow. She was squirming, trying to get away from him. Her fear and anxiety, expertly feigned, had the expected effect on the guards. They smiled and engaged Thatë in a short exchange, during which Thatë produced his pendant. Another even terser conversation ensued, which Alli assumed was an exchange of code phrases.

She must have been right because one of the guards nodded and went up the stairs while Thatë dragged her along. The guard unlocked the door. As she passed alongside him, he gave her a hard pinch. Snarling, she lunged at him, and bit off the lobe of his ear.

He yelped, the other guard came running, and Thatë kicked him hard in the groin. He went to his knees without a sound, and Thatë drove the heel of his shoe into the side of his head. At the same time, Alli slammed the heel of her hand into the bleeding guard’s mouth, then drove her knee into his solar plexus. As he went down, she took his head in her hands and smacked it against the side of the door frame.

They went inside, closing the door behind them.

PAWNHILL OPENED the attaché case and thumbed the laptop out of sleep mode, inserted the DVD, and had a look. Sure enough, the Gemini Holdings account data was there. Enormously relieved, he closed the attaché case and pressed the metal tabs home one at a time.

Exiting the apartment, he made sure the front door was locked before he closed it. In the stairwell, he took off his hood and booties, but kept the gloves on. The same radio was playing, the music louder now. The baby had returned to squalling. The stairwell smelled of cold pizza and the grease that’s left in a bucket of KFC when the chicken is eaten.

Down on the first floor, he stood very still, listening for any anomalous noise. Hearing none, he pulled the locking lever down, opened the rear door, and stepped out. The moment he did so, a thin man in Hell’s Angels leathers appeared.

“Mr. Pawnhill.” He gestured. “Walk with me.”

Pawnhill said, “Do I know you?”

“You will,” Fraine said.

Pawnhill shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Fraine pulled back the flap of leather jacket to show his service revolver.

Smiling with his teeth, Pawnhill revealed the Sig Sauer in its shoulder holster.

“You don’t want a shoot-out,” Fraine said.

Pawnhill moved his hand toward the butt of the Sig Sauer. “You ever see Reservoir Dogs?”

“Actually, it’s a favorite of mine. But that won’t happen today.” Fraine called and two Metro officers paraded Pawnhill’s team, hands behind their heads, into view.

“You’re out of uniform,” Pawnhill said.

“Surveillance work.” Fraine grinned, then motioned with his chin. “Whatcha got in there? Something you picked up while you were ransacking Billy Warren’s apartment?”

“Your people did too good a job. I didn’t find anything.”

“Uh-huh. Walk the attaché case halfway to where I’m standing, set it down on its side, lay your weapon next to it, then back up.”

“I told you I didn’t find—”

“I have men on the rooftops,” Fraine said. “If you don’t comply, you’ll be dead inside of thirty seconds.”

Pawnhill shrugged and followed Fraine’s instructions. When he had backed up sufficiently, Fraine said, “Now raise your hands and don’t move.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

While his men kept a bead on Pawnhill, Fraine walked over to the attaché case. He pocketed the Sig Sauer, then put his hands on the snaps.

“Go ahead,” Pawnhill said. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

The snaps popped open and Fraine lifted the lid. Instantly, there was a loud hiss, and a thick black cloud billowed into the air. Fraine leaped back, his eyes already on fire. The pop-pop-pop of rifle shots were heard, but when the smoke cleared Pawnhill was nowhere to be seen.

Fraine did not have to order his team to spread out in a dragnet; they were already sprinting in every direction.

One of the officers came up to him, slipped an oxygen mask over his head, and made sure he was breathing okay. “Shifty fucking bastard,” he said. “Cheer up, sir. At least we have the evidence.”

Fraine’s throat and nostrils felt as if they had been scrubbed raw with sandpaper. Coughing still, he returned to the open attaché case and crouched down. Then he tore off his oxygen mask. The acrid stink of acid stung his eyes.

“Godammit!”

Everything inside the case was melted. He could see the vague outline of a laptop computer and a curled section of what once must have been a DVD. All useless now.

JACK AND Annika were crouched in the darkness of the trees surrounding Arian Xhafa’s compound. They both wore lightweight backpacks into which Annika had placed various paraphernalia.

“According to Baltasar, there are seven guards and two attack dogs protecting the compound,” she said.

“Do you believe him?”

She glanced at him. “Do you have a better idea?”

Jack pointed. “One thing your victim failed to mention is the electrified razor wire on top of the wall.”

Annika rose. “Let’s take a walk.”

They picked their way slowly around the compound until they came to the rear. Then she pointed upward to the branches of an ancient oak tree, two of which arched over the wall and its lethal top.

“How are you at climbing?” she asked.

They moved as close to the wall as they dared. Jack wove his fingers together, Annika stepped onto them, and he launched her up toward the lowest branch. By stretching to her limit, she was just able to grab hold of it with one hand. Jack pushed her upward several inches and she swung one leg over the branch, rolling her torso until she lay horizontally on it. From her backpack, she uncoiled a length of rope, tied one end around the branch, and threw the other end to him.

A moment later, Jack had joined her on the branch. With his weight, it dipped down perilously close to the razor wire, and they began to wriggle their way toward the trunk, over the wire and wall.

They found themselves hanging above a courtyard garden that smelled strongly of citrus.

“Just a matter of time before the dogs scent us,” Jack whispered. He looked around. “Get me a rock about fist size.”

While Annika crawled across the branch and shimmied down the rope, Jack slipped off his backpack and jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, and, using a knife, slit out the entire back. Then he put it back on, and the jacket over it. As Annika was climbing up the rope, he unzipped his pants and relieved his bladder into the square of cloth until it was thoroughly saturated.

By this time, Annika had regained the branch, but now a wind had sprung up, one that bobbed the branch up and down. Again and again, it dipped dangerously close to the electrified wire. Annika froze, waiting for the wind to subside, but it didn’t. In fact, it started to blow harder. Closer and closer she came, until Jack stretched out on the limb and slowly pulled her toward him and off the far end of the branch.

He took the rock from her, wrapped it in the soaked square of shirt, then tied it off with a piece of plastic cord ripped from one of the outside pockets of his backpack.

“Ready?” he whispered.

Annika nodded, and he threw the makeshift bundle into the far left corner of the garden. Almost at once, a howling commenced and two huge dogs came racing and skidding around the corner of the house, heading directly toward the unfamiliar spoor invading their territory. Jack and Annika shinnied down, keeping the tree trunk between themselves and the dogs. They reached the opposite corner of the villa and pressed themselves against the cool stucco wall as a pair of guards, AK-50s at the ready, sprinted into the garden to see what was driving the dogs into a frenzy.

They had very little time before the dogs scented them. Jack opened a side window and Annika climbed through. He was about to follow her when he heard a stirring in the shadows and another guard appeared. The moment he saw Jack he swung his assault rifle toward Jack’s midsection. Stepping toward him, Jack shoved the barrel of the AK-50 to one side and delivered a sharp blow to the guard’s throat. Then he grabbed the assault rifle out of the staggering man’s hands and drove the butt into the bridge of his nose. The guard went down and stayed down. Slinging the AK-50 over his shoulder, Jack dragged the unconscious guard to the windowsill and tipped him inside. Then he followed him in.

He was in a darkened bedroom. Closing the window behind him, he looked around for Annika, but she was nowhere to be seen. Cursing under his breath, he stepped out into the hallway, looked both ways, then went to his right. He soon found himself in the large kitchen with its line of windows overlooking the garden. Two guards lay sprawled on the floor. Three down. Two were outside with the dogs. That meant one last guard left. He had to find Xhafa and the Syrian before the other two guards grew suspicious and decided to check the interior of the house. He unslung the AK-50.

Moving stealthily, he came upon the vast living room with its prayer rugs, modern task chair, and desk. He soon discovered that the computer was without its hard drive. He saw a connection for a high-speed modem but the modem itself was missing. He turned. Had Xhafa somehow known they were coming? Had he and the Syrian abandoned the house, leaving the guards as bait?

Then he heard the gunshot and he broke into a run.

THATË, HIS hand around Alli’s arm, was met almost immediately by an Albanian thug who was clearly higher up the crooked ladder than the guards outside.

“A new cherry,” Thatë said. “And a feisty one.”

The thug grinned. “We have a cure for that.” He ogled her openly. “We’ll break her spirit soon enough.” Laughing at her expression, he grabbed at one of her breasts.

Thatë pulled her away before she could receive more of a mauling. “Absolutely not. Now that Edon is gone, Arian wants this one for himself. Where are the special cherries housed?”

“Third floor in the rear.” The Albanian frowned. “But I didn’t hear anything about another special.”

“What d’you mean?”

“We have Edon’s sister up there. She belongs to Xhafa.”

Thatë sighed. “I only do what he tells me. Call him, if you need to.”

“That’s just what I intend to do.”

The Albanian pulled out his cell and Alli jammed her elbow into his kidney. Thatë used the barrel of his handgun on the Albanian’s neck, cracking several vertebrae. The Albanian crumpled to the floor. Thatë nodded at Alli and, together, they raced down the corridor and up the central staircase.

Behind them, the Albanian’s cell activated with an incoming call.

“Ilir, are you there? Ilir, check in.”

ANNIKA FOUND Xhafa in a small room, perhaps a study, because there were piles of books on the floor. He was sitting in a chair, a Sig Sauer in one hand.

“I knew you’d come,” he said. “Like a dog to its own stink.” He lifted the handgun and pulled the trigger.

Annika, in shadow, was already moving. The bullet whizzed by her ear. Then she kicked out with her right boot, connecting with the point of Xhafa’s chin. The chair tumbled over backward. Reaching out, she plucked the Sig Sauer from him and pulled the chair back onto its feet. Xhafa sat dazed, blood drooling from a corner of his mouth.

“Sure I came back,” she said. “You’re the dog, you’re the stink.”

That’s when the barking of the dogs rang through the house.

Xhafa smiled through his pain. “Bang, bang,” he said. “You’re dead.”