Cold Frame

TWENTY-TWO

Carl Mandeville reached for the secure phone when it lit up. It was Strang.

“Everything in place?” he asked.

“Almost,” Strang replied. “I just need to confirm a couple of things.”

“All right — what?”

“This is a demonstration, correct? The team will penetrate the Walker estate and demand they hand over that cop. But deadly force is not authorized, and if there is real resistance, they back out. Right?”

“Yes, of course,” Mandeville said. “As yet I don’t have a FISA warrant, so we’re going bareback here until it comes through. Still, I’m pretty sure that this Walker fella will probably just crap his pants and hand him over. He’s a scientist, but he’s afflicted with Marfan syndrome, so I’m not expecting some kind of martial arts dustup.”

“Okay, I just needed to confirm all that. We’ll have a diversion at the front gate, and a SWAT team on standby in the neighborhood. I haven’t coordinated with Fairfax County, either. We hope to get in and out in under sixty minutes. Secure tactical comm. The people at the front gate will have a cover story if the locals interfere.”

“And no connection to the DMX, right?”

“Perish the thought,” Strang said.

“Who are you using for this?”

“Really want to know that?” Strang asked.

“No, I guess not,” Mandeville said. Mostly because you’re not going to get him, he thought. I am. “I’ll be here until you report back. When you get him, take him back to Petersburg yourself, this time to the penitentiary side. I’ll tell them what to do from there.”

“Got it.”

Once Strang was clear, he called the secure drop for Evangelino. When the phone picked up with its usual silent hiss, he spoke four words: “Blue Line. Fourteen hundred.” Then he hung up, got his lightweight trench coat, and went down the hall. He had three secretaries, all of whom stood up when he appeared in the doorway to the executive secretariat.

“Going for a walk,” he announced.

Yes, Mister Mandeville, they all chirped in unison. No “when will you be back” or “how can we reach you.” They knew better.

Thirty minutes later he was seated on a wooden bench in the Metro Center underground station. It being early afternoon and not yet rush hour, the station was pretty empty. He glanced up at the lighted train board on the ceiling, which gave an ETA for the next train coming through and which line it was running. Blue Line coming through in three minutes. He looked at his watch. It was just now two o’clock. Close enough, he thought. When the train blew into the station, he got up and started walking alongside, front to back, as the cars squealed to a stop.

There.

He stepped through the next set of doors just before they chimed and slid shut. He went toward the back of the car, where the stone-faced operative sat all alone, dressed in a plain suit and a gray fedora hat, the left side of his face staring through the train and into the dark tunnel ahead. Mandeville gave a mental snort. Thinks this is occupied Berlin back in the seventies, he thought.

He took the seat behind him, the two of them facing forward as the train gathered speed and headed out toward the suburbs.

“Are you ready for tonight?” he asked.

The fedora nodded once.

“Good. They’re going in sometime after sundown. They’ll make a big-deal entrance at the gate while their intrusion team goes over the wall and into the mansion from the back. I’m guessing they’re not going to succeed, but they might. Either way, as the commotion settles down, you know what to do.”

Another nod.

“If they do manage to pick him up, I’ll send instructions to Petersburg to turn him over to you when I’m ready, and you’re ready. If they don’t get him, once you capture him, terminate him and put the body in the river. I’ll send you a signal when their team goes in, and another when we find out what they did or did not accomplish.” He paused. “Sure you remember what he looks like?”

The ruined face turned to look directly at him, and, not for the first time, Mandeville wondered if that baleful left eye saw or not. Then the man grinned at him. A woman sitting a few benches down from them saw that grin, got up, and moved quickly to the other end of the subway car.

“Okay, then,” Mandeville said. “Good hunting.”

The train pulled into the next stop and Evangelino rose and got off. Mandeville remained seated until the next station stop, then got out, went up and over the bridge across the tracks and sat down to wait for the next train going back into town.

Now, he thought, that interfering prick was going to find out just how ruthless the CT world could be when someone crossed Carl Mandeville. He was betting on Evangelino. The only hole in his intelligence picture of Walker’s estate was what was under all that leafy canopy out there. The walls were formidable enough, and he probably had some electronic surveillance, too, but both his operations tonight could handle all that easily.

This damn mess had gotten away from him, he realized, and it was time for some decisive action. The vials had arrived from Fort Detrick and were now in his safe. The next meeting of the DMX was in three days, and there was going to be a terrible “accident” in the meeting room. The fact that the DMX meeting room was almost hermetically sealed off in all respects would make the results even more dreadful. The whole committee extinguished in a few deep breaths. Especially his one-time protégée, Ellen bitch-kitty Whiting. He’d even figured out how to blame the whole thing on Walker and his little society. Pity the old man never left the estate, because if he did, he could become the very first civilian to ever attend a meeting of the DMX.

He smiled to himself. Wouldn’t that be a nice, tidy package. He’d have to work on that.