Born to Run

Chapter 29

The Greek chose a sentimental spot for his Friday-morning meeting: Greek Taverna in the Old Post Office Pavilion.

Built in 1899, the pavilion’s twelve-story tower had once made it Washington’s tallest government building and first skyscraper. Its conversion to a shopping mall in 1978 helped to revitalize Pennsylvania Avenue between the Capitol and the White House, to the point that the shopping mall-with Abercrombie, Victoria’s Secret, and Limited Too-was nearly as popular among tourists as the National Mall, no slight to Washington, Jefferson, and the Lincoln Memorial. The doors opened at 10:00 A.M., and by ten thirty the place was bustling with shoppers, diners, and people who just wanted to walk around and soak up the confluence of nineteenth-century architecture and twenty-first-century atmosphere. The Greek had chosen the pavilion for one reason only: a highly public place with hundreds of potential witnesses made it that much harder for someone to put a bullet in his head.

The hostess escorted him to a table outside the restaurant in the cafe area. He was still indoors, however, seated beneath the skylight in the mall’s three-story atrium. The pavilion had three levels, and from his vantage point he could keep an eye on just about everyone, whether they strolled past the Taverna on the first level or looked down toward him from the upper levels. If the need arose, he could even make a run for it.

The thought triggered a memory, and as his gaze drifted up toward the skylight overhead, he could almost see himself falling from the rooftop to the stone floor below. He shook it off. That was the past. He had been young and stupid back then. He was in control now, not them.

Stay strong, he told himself. You are stronger than ever.

“Will it be just you, sir?” asked the server.

“No,” said the Greek. “I’m meeting someone.”

The server placed two mugs on the table and filled one with decaffeinated coffee, black. The Greek got a bottle of spring water as well, and when the server was gone, he pulled a sack full of tablets and capsules from his coat pocket. In it was literally everything from A to Z-as in vitamin A to zinc. He laid each supplement on the table in a neat row before him, methodically popped one at a time into his mouth, and washed it down with a sip of water. He’d been mega-dosing vitamins and minerals since his fiftieth birthday. No one knew for sure if it did any good, but it had been about five years since his last bout with the common cold, and the Greek was convinced that the supplements were at least in part responsible for his high stamina, quick reactions, and sharp mind. All were essential for his line of work, though his exact profession was open to some debate.

The Greek was not a hit man. He had never liked the label, never thought it applied to him. Yes, he had killed people. Yes, he had gotten paid to do it. But he was more like a sniper in wartime. His kills were highly personal, but they were essential to the overall mission. The Greek had never “offed” anyone unless it was absolutely essential. Sometimes, the assignments were easy. Most of the bastards on his list had deserved far worse. Other times, however, the jobs were more difficult. On occasion, it was necessary to kill someone you liked.

Maybe even someone you loved.

The Greek noticed a man with a beard, glasses, and a broad-rimmed hat coming toward him. He didn’t recognize the man, but that seemed to be the point. A Secret Service agent couldn’t be seen meeting someone with the Greek’s past.

“How are you, Frank?” he said.

Agent Madera took a seat at the cafe table. “Don’t use my name, idiot. And let’s make this quick.”

The Greek had rehearsed his pitch for an hour last night, and if he spoke slowly he could deliver it coolly and with almost no accent. Madera’s edginess made him want to slow down even more, just to tweak the bastard.

“I know your boy’s in trouble, and I can help.”

“You don’t know squat.”

The Greek smiled thinly. “I know about the e-mail to Jack Swyteck. I know about the one to Chloe Sparks. I know much more than you think.”

“Who do you think you’re fooling? You know about those e-mails because you’re the one who sent them.”

“See, you’re wrong already. I didn’t send them. I sold you the goods on Keyes before the election, and I kept my end of the deal. I have not breathed a word to anyone. It’s your secret now, not mine.”

“Well, obviously someone else is in on it, too. And they are going to ruin a very good thing if this becomes public knowledge.”

The server came by to offer coffee, but Madera waved him off, as if to say that he wasn’t staying long.

“Like I told you,” the Greek said. “I know who it is. And I can take care of that problem.”

“Who is it?”

“Not so fast.”

“You are so full of shit,” said Madera, and he started to rise.

“Wait!”

The Greek immediately regretted his tone. A little too desperate.

Madera lowered himself back into his chair, intrigued.

“Okay,” said the Greek. “I’ll tell you who it is. But first we need to strike a deal: I’m the one who takes care of the problem.”

“You mean really take care of it?”

The Greek unfolded the cloth napkin at his table and wrapped it around his fist. It was an allusion to his signature-the homemade suppressor, a towel wrapped around the.22-caliber Beretta.

“I mean permanently,” he said.

“What’s that going to cost us?”

“Five hundred thousand.”

Madera scoffed. “You’re out of your mind.”

“That may sound high. But without me, you can’t even identify the threat. Think of it as your half-million-dollar investment in preserving the status quo. I’m throwing in the disposal for free.”

Madera considered it, and a decision came quickly. Almost too quickly.

“All right. Who is it?”

“Before I tell you, I want you to understand that I’ve set up a safety valve. If anything happens to me-even if I just mysteriously disappear-the truth about Keyes is going to be all over the newspapers.”

“Who is it?” said Madera, refusing even to acknowledge the threat.

The Greek drew a breath, as if to underscore the difficulty of his position. And it was difficult. In fact, it was the most painful lie he’d ever told. He raised his coffee mug to his lips and spoke over it.

“It’s my ex-wife, Sofia.”

“You told me she didn’t know anything.”

“That was two years ago. Things change.”

Madera showed no reaction, and the Greek tried to mask his own misgivings. He had gone to Sofia hoping to persuade her to meet with Madera and sell her silence. Over time, he probably could have convinced her to do it. But he didn’t have time. Her refusal to help had left him no choice.

Madera said, “You’re one lucky bastard. Not many men get paid half a million bucks to eliminate their ex.”

“I’m giving you five days to get me the money. I want it wire-transferred to my account in Antigua. Here’s the account number,” he said, as he slid a business card across the tabletop.

Madera didn’t take it.

The Greek nudged it forward. Madera still didn’t reach for it. He didn’t even look at it.

The Greek met his stare. “You’re not going to pay, are you?”

Madera was silent.

The Greek looked past Madera, and he noticed a man standing near the directory in the center of the courtyard. He seemed to be watching them. Instinctively, the Greek’s gaze drifted up toward the second level. Another man at the railing seemed to have his eye on them as well. The Greek knew in an instant that these men weren’t Secret Service agents.

They were part of Madera’s other world.

His pulse quickened, and he suddenly realized that putting Sofia at risk and not getting paid for it were the least of his worries. He had to make a break, but even at the peak of his training, he wasn’t sure he could have outrun three, four, or maybe more of them. From behind he heard the whine of an electric engine, and with a quick glance over his shoulder he spotted a mall security guard. He was driving a flatbed golf cart that was rigged to transport the handicapped.

Yes!

The Greek threw the rest of his coffee into Madera’s face, leaped to his feet, and grabbed the security guard as he rode past their table. A woman screamed as the guard tumbled to the floor and the Greek jumped behind the steering wheel. He put the pedal to the metal and brought it to full speed immediately.

The man on the second floor raced down the escalator. Two other men came running from a bagel shop. The Greek knew they weren’t going to shoot him in front of all these people, but if they caught him, they’d soon stuff him in the trunk of a car, never to be heard from again. He was a dead man if he didn’t get out-now.

He pulled a quick U-turn and sped toward the exit. Shoppers jumped out of the way as he blew past one storefront after another. The security guard and Madera’s men gave chase, but the electric cart was fully juiced and fast enough to have been an emergency-response vehicle. The Greek laid on the horn and drove as if he didn’t care how many people he mowed down. He rode it all the way to the Pennsylvania Avenue exit, ditched it at the door, and headed for the street at a full sprint on fresh legs. A taxi was at the corner of Twelfth Street. He pushed an old woman aside and stole it from her.

“Hey,” said the driver, “that lady was first.”

The Greek slammed the door shut and threw his wallet onto the front seat beside the driver.

“Take as much as you want. Get me out of here. Fast!”

The tires squealed, and the cab launched like a rocket. Through the rear window, the Greek saw Madera’s men huffing and puffing, cursing one another at the curb.

He was smiling, feeling smug and even a little full of himself over the getaway. But then reality hit, and the smile ran from his lips. The bottom line was that he still owed the Russians five hundred thousand dollars. And if there was one thing worse than having the Russians out to kill you, he had just found it.

Now it was the Russians and the Italians.