End Game

CHAPTER THREE

Washington, DC, was a city that wallowed in opposites. Everybody in this town had an opinion, and given twenty seconds and an ounce of alcohol, they’d be more than happy to share it with you. It was a town of blind ambition, flexible ethics, and no sense of either shame or loyalty. For all those reasons and more, Jonathan Grave hated the place.

Yet here he was at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, dressed like a penguin, paying a ridiculous price for a meal and a show, all in support of the Resurrection House Foundation. Founded anonymously by Jonathan via one of many cutout companies that he’d established for any number of reasons, Resurrection House was a residential school for the children of incarcerated parents. Officially run by Saint Katherine’s Catholic Church in Fisherman’s Cove, Virginia, the main building had begun life as Jonathan’s childhood mansion. Thanks in no small part to the relentless marketing by Father Dom D’Angelo, pastor of St. Kate’s and resident psychologist and headmaster, Rez House, as it was called by the locals, had become one of the “in” charities in Washington. The annual fund-raiser had become a place to see and be seen.

Among the four hundred people in attendance at the black-tie gala, Jonathan knew of only two who were aware of his involvement with the foundation, and they had been sworn to secrecy. In Jonathan’s worldview, philanthropy that was broadcast through the media was a publicity stunt in disguise. He’d rather be an anonymous guy in the crowd.

If he really had his druthers, he wouldn’t be here at all, but at home wearing shorts and a T-shirt, either reading a book or retooling his guns.

Ah, his guns. He missed the feel of the Colt 1911 .45 on his hip. This being the District of Columbia, where security was tight because of the dignitaries in attendance, and only bad guys enjoyed the privilege of being able to defend themselves, he had no choice but to join the ranks of bad-guy bait.

As ugly as the town was in its soul, he had to admit that it was home to a lot of beautiful places. Among them, he thought, was the Kennedy Center, but there were plenty of folks who would argue the opposite. The most common rap the place took was that it looked on the outside like a giant Whitman’s Sampler candy box, and that the red-on-red-on-red interior made it look like a high-ceilinged whorehouse.

Clearly, the critics had never visited a real whorehouse.

Jonathan thought it was lovely and elegant. Presently, he was standing in line for the bar, where an overworked bartender struggled to keep up with the sissy drinks that were favored by most of the patrons. If Jonathan were king, the only ingredients that could be legally added to an alcoholic beverage would be olives and the occasional ice cube. Okay, and twists of certain citrus fruits. If good scotch were involved, even the ice cubes would be illegal.

His date for the night — because he wasn’t currently in the market for a girlfriend — was Venice Alexander, the brains behind so much of what his company, Security Solutions, had been able to accomplish over the years. Pronounced Ven-EE-chay, the young lady who was currently charming the ambassador of Buttscratchistan over by the base of the stairs to the Opera House had been a friend of his for nearly as long as she’d been alive. The older he got, the less the eight-year age difference meant, but there were still more than a few people tonight who’d noticed that her skin was chocolate brown while his was Polish white. At one level, Jonathan lived for the moment when someone would have the balls to say something out loud.

Venice deserved a decent man in her life — God knew she’d endured her share of shitheads — and if a fancy-ass black-tie gala could help her find one, Jonathan was all over that. So long as love never trumped her loyalty to Security Solutions. No one on Earth matched her skills for making cyberspace dance to a prescribed melody.

When it was his turn, he ordered a neat Lagavulin for himself — one of the requirements for an open bar in his universe was to have decent liquor — and a Hendrick’s with orange juice for Venice.

“Are you two-fisting your drinks this evening?” asked a sweet female voice from behind.

He turned to behold a pretty thirtysomething dressed in a clingy red gown and the ultimate in stiletto sandals. “Poison in one hand,” Jonathan said, lifting the scotch, “and antidote in the other.” He’d been sniffed at by too many bimbettes over the years to be drawn into her trap.

She smiled. “I’d offer to shake hands, but you don’t seem to have one available. My name’s Kit,” she said. “That’s what they call the offspring of a wolverine.”

The words caused Jonathan to pause. Wolverine was the code name for a very senior official in the FBI. “Oh yeah?” he asked. “Do you know a lot about wolverines?”

“Only what I’ve been told on Ninth Street,” she said.

Jonathan processed the words. The J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI Headquarters, resided on Ninth Street, Northwest, in Washington, DC. Whoever this lady was, she had been dispatched by Irene Rivers, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He raised the gin and orange juice, as if part of a toast. “I need to deliver a drink to my guest,” he said.

“I’ll be waiting right here,” Kit said.

Jonathan peeled away and worked his way through the shoulder-crushing crowd to find Venice. She was in the sweet spot of her biennial crusade to lose weight, striking a stunning chord in her little black dress that had the power to stop traffic. “Excuse me,” he said, interrupting her conversation with Ambassador What’s-his-name. “This is for you.”

Something in his tone caught her attention. As she reached for the proffered glass, she said, “Is there a problem?”

“Ask me again in a few minutes,” Jonathan said. He turned and headed back toward the woman in the red dress.

Kit stood in front of the tall windows, purportedly staring out at the Potomac River, while in fact, he suspected, studying the reflections of the room. He approached from behind and took a spot next to her. “You got my attention,” he said.

“My boss says that you’ve been hard to find for the last few weeks,” she said.

“Apparently not,” he replied. Not nearly enough time had passed since the last time he’d gotten pulled into the kind of political hot spot that threatened his life.

Kit turned to face him and offered her hand. “My real name is Maryanne Rhoades,” she said.

Jonathan smiled. “Real enough for tonight, anyway,” he said. “And to think that I could escape cloaks and daggers and spend an evening merely giving huge sums of money to charity.”

“Being a billionaire must be a terrible burden,” Maryanne said.

Her sarcasm made him like her less. He waited for her to make her point.

“We have an issue,” Maryanne explained.

“Help me with ‘we,’ ” Jonathan said.

“In this case, all freedom-loving people,” Maryanne said.

Jonathan laughed before he could stop himself. “How long did you practice that line before you actually had to deliver it?”

Her smile evaporated. “Can we find a corner to talk?”

Jonathan looked at his watch. “Intermission is about to end,” he said. “And I have a date.”

“Your date is a coworker, and you don’t like opera.”

He wasn’t going to argue with a stranger, but the fact was that he had recently found a place for opera in his life, thanks to the influence of a woman named Gail, who only recently joined a long line of women who ultimately couldn’t live with the risks that defined his world. As for his date, she deserved better than to be stood up.

“Tell you what, Maryanne,” he said. “Why don’t you just hang out here till the end of the second act. I’ll be back for the next intermission.”

He turned and walked away. Irene Rivers would never have been so dismissive of Venice, and there were precious few crises in the world that couldn’t cook for another hour or so. He considered it time well spent if it taught Kit-Maryanne a little humility and manners.

“Who’s the lady in red?” Venice asked as he rejoined her in the line that was headed back into the Opera House.

“A friend of Wolverine,” he said. “Lots of attitude. She can wait.”

Venice turned and glared. “Digger! You can’t do that.”

He shrugged. “Sure I can. I don’t work for them, and it’s not right for a lady who’s dressed as hot as you to sit by herself in a box seat.”

Venice pulled to a stop. “Oh, my God,” she gasped, feigning shock. “Did you just give me a compliment?”

Jonathan felt himself blush. “Oh, come on.”

Venice grinned. “Go,” she said. “Like it or not, important people have come to depend on you.”

“But I want to see the end—” His phone buzzed with an incoming message. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew the electronic leash. The screen read J. Edgar, his little dig at Irene’s professional heritage.

The text message was simple and to the point: “Don’t be an asshole. She means well. We need you.”

“Wolverine?” Venice asked with a knowing smile.

Jonathan sighed and took a healthy pull on his scotch. “Enjoy the show,” he said.

The doctor’s house looked much bigger on the inside than it did from the exterior — and far more opulent. A wide, round foyer led to a sweeping staircase to the second floor. The floor beneath Jolaine’s feet appeared to be marble — some sort of white stone. Now in brighter light, Sarah’s blood seemed even redder — not just where it flowed from her body, but where it smeared on every surface it touched.

The rooms that Jolaine could see screamed serious money. Overstuffed furniture atop Oriental carpets. From the masculinity of the décor and darkness of the color palette, Jolaine suspected that Wilkerson did not have a woman in his life. The place looked more like a country-club cigar room than a home.

She considered asking where they were taking Sarah, but didn’t when she realized that she’d know soon enough. “Are you still with us, Graham?” she asked without looking back. When he didn’t answer, she threw a glance over her shoulder. He seemed dazed by the crimson smears on the floor.

“Graham!” she shouted. It startled him. “Please come with us. Come help your mom.”

“We should clean this,” he said.

Jolaine felt a tug in her chest. The kid was losing it. Maybe she owed him a hug and a shoulder to cry on, but they didn’t have the time, and the doctor wasn’t slowing down.

“Later,” she said. “I really need you to come with us. Please.”

Wilkerson pulled on a giant picture on the wall that swung open to reveal a hidden panel, which in turn led to an elevator door. “There’s only one way down,” he said as they stepped into the elevator. “You’re coming or you’re staying, but I’m not waiting for either one of you.”

“Graham!”

That seemed to break his spell. He looked up.

“Now. Please.”

He started walking again.

Wilkerson reached past Jolaine to pull the door closed without them, and she pushed back. She didn’t get why he needed to be such an asshole, but she’d kill him before she left Graham alone.

Five seconds later, Graham joined them, and Jolaine pulled the door closed herself. Wilkerson pushed the bottom of two buttons, and the car jerked. It wasn’t till they were moving that Jolaine noticed the size of the elevator car. Like the house itself, it was bigger than she was expecting. Big enough to accommodate a stretcher.

The elevator jerked to a stop, and Wilkerson nodded to the doorknob near Jolaine’s hip. “Open it, please,” he said.

The door opened onto a doctor’s office — a surgical suite, really, complete with tile walls and floors, lights suspended from the ceiling, and an operating table.

“Wow,” she said. An understatement.

“I have a very limited yet lucrative practice,” Wilkerson said. “Uncle Sam likes to take care of his own.” He led Sarah to the table, turned her, and then hoisted her faceup onto the stainless-steel surface.

She winced and yelled at the jostling. Jolaine thought it good news that she could respond to stimuli.

“Be careful!” Graham said. “You’re hurting her.” He rushed to the table to be near her head. “You’re going to be okay, Mom.”

Wilkerson pivoted to a nearby sink and turned on the water by nudging the knee-operated valve. “We’re going to need you to say your good-byes and move away,” he said. “I need to evaluate the wound.”

“Are you working alone?” Jolaine asked.

“For the next few minutes, yes. I have a team on the way.” He nodded to a pair of blunt-tipped scissors on the counter next to the sink. “Cut her shirt off for me, will you?”

Now Jolaine saw why he didn’t want a kid around. To care for wounds, they needed to be exposed, and no boy needed to see his mother’s naked torso. More than that, no child needed to see a parent’s bullet wounds.

“Can you please stand over there?” Jolaine said to Graham as she returned with the scissors. “I need to take your mom’s shirt off.”

“No,” he said. “I want to stay with her.”

Sarah turned her head to face her son and smiled. “I’ll be okay, sweetie,” she said. “They just need to work on me a little. You don’t want to see that. Besides, they’ll be giving me something soon to help me sleep.”

Graham’s face turned red. “Are you going to die?”

“No, I’m going to be fine,” she said. “The doctor is going to take good care of me.”

“I don’t like him,” Graham said.

She smiled again. “Some doctors are just like that. It’s late and he’s tired.” She ran a bloody hand through his hair, streaking it. “I love you.”

Tears tracked his cheeks now. “I love you, too,” he croaked.

Sarah lowered her hand. “Go on now,” she said.

Graham looked up at Jolaine, who put a hand on his shoulder and pressed just a little in the direction of the plastic chair in the corner. He seemed smaller than he was before. Younger.

Jolaine jumped when Sarah’s hand clamped her wrist. The grip was stronger than she’d expected.

“Bring him back,” she said. “Never mind. Graham!” she shouted. “Come on back, baby.”

He all but leaped back to his mother’s side. “I’m here, Mom,” he said. “Right here.”

Sarah pulled a bloody piece of paper from her pocket — the very piece of paper, Jolaine realized in a flash of panic, that Gregory had given Bernard when he spilled into the front door.

“Take this,” Sarah said to her son.

Jolaine reached out to intercept. “No,” she said.

Graham shoved her. “Get out of my way,” he said.

Jolaine didn’t know what the paper was, but she knew that people had died for it, and that her most pressing job was to keep Graham from dying, too. “Really, Sarah?” she said. “He’s your son.”

Sarah made no indication that she’d heard. “Take this,” she said to Graham.

“What is it?” He seemed to sense the danger, too.

“Please,” Sarah said. “It’s important.”

“I’ll take it,” Jolaine said.

Graham and Sarah replied in unison, “No!”

Wilkerson stepped up to the table. “I told you to get her clothes off.”

“Leave us alone for a moment, Doctor,” Sarah said, grunting through a spasm of pain.

“You’re going to die if we don’t get that wound stabilized.”

“It’s my life to lose,” Sarah snapped. “Two minutes.” Without waiting for an answer, she rocked her head to readdress Graham, and she thrust the note closer. “Do you remember the protocol?”

Graham froze. Terror invaded his face. He said, “Um.”

“You do, don’t you?” Sarah said.

Jolaine asked, “What are you talking about? What protocol?”

Sarah stayed focused on her son. “You remember, don’t you, Graham? You always remember.”

Graham nodded.

“Sarah, I must insist,” Jolaine said. “Whatever this protocol is, whatever the content of the note, if it endangers—”

“Shut up, Jolaine,” Sarah snapped. “Take this, Graham.” She thrust the note into his hand. “Look at it. Look at it carefully.”

“I don’t want—”

“For crying out loud,” Wilkerson said. “Look at the damn thing. The quicker you do, the better chance I have of saving her life.”

Graham took the note and opened it. When Jolaine tried to peek, he angled away so she couldn’t see. The glimpse she did catch revealed a long string of numbers and letters. As far as she could tell, it wasn’t an equation, and it spelled nothing.

As Graham studied the paper, trying to make sense out of it, she realized that Sarah had snared her son in a trap.

When Graham looked up from the paper, Sarah smiled. “You memorized it, didn’t you?” She laughed and triggered another spasm. “You can’t help it.”

Jolaine knew it was true. Graham’s version of photographic memory placed him in the one percentile of the one percentile. To read was to remember forever. He had no control over it.

“Give me the paper back now,” Sarah said.

After looking at it one more time, Graham handed it back. Sarah stuffed it into her mouth and swallowed. “Execute the protocol,” Sarah said. To Jolaine, she added, “Remember your mission, too.”

“What is this, Sarah?” Jolaine demanded. “Why is all this happening? You owe me that much.”

“The protocol,” Sarah said again. “Graham knows the code and the protocol. Repeat it only in person, son. That’s very important. In person, not over the phone.”

“But the protocol is a phone call,” Graham said. “That’s all it ever was.”

“You’ll have to meet. The man on the other end will know what to do. Just follow his directions.”

Jolaine stepped in again. “Sarah, he is not meeting anyone unless I know what he’s walking into. Is this code, as you call it, the reason why people are dying?”

“Follow the protocol,” Sarah repeated. “Once the loop is closed, the killing should stop. There’ll be no reason. Jolaine, protect Graham.”

“Sarah, this isn’t fair. I can’t protect him if—”

Behind them, the mechanics of the elevator hummed. Jolaine’s hand jerked to her holster, and one second later, her Glock was in her hand. She pushed Graham across the room and made herself as big as possible in the space between him and the door.

“That’s my team arriving,” Wilkerson said.

From a two-handed isosceles stance, she centered her sights on the middle of the door. “They need to pray that they don’t have weapons in their hands,” she said.

“For God’s sake,” Wilkerson said. “Take a breath. We don’t need any more shooting.”

Jolaine didn’t bother to respond. She trusted her reserve and her resolve. She wouldn’t shoot at anyone who didn’t need shooting. Tonight, that bar was dropping lower by the minute.

The elevator hydraulics hissed, and then there was a soft thump. Two seconds later, the door opened. She moved her finger from the pistol’s frame to its trigger. If it came to that, she could rain down ten rounds in a little under four seconds, every one of them drilling a hole within an inch of where she wanted it to drill.

The first man out of the elevator didn’t look like a doctor. With gray hair and a jet-black beard that was a throwback to the Civil War, he looked like a sixties-era beatnik. “Show your hands or die where you stand!” Jolaine yelled.

The guy jumped. Had there not been three more men plugging the entrance behind him, he might have bolted back through the door. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he yelled. He held his hands out in front of him, his fingers splayed to ward off the attack. “I’m a doctor.”

“Stop!” Wilkerson bellowed. “Jesus Christ, these are my colleagues. Put your gun away!”

Jolaine held her aim long enough to assess each of the faces coming off the elevator. Every one of them looked like they’d be more comfortable in front of a video game than engaging in a gunfight muzzle to muzzle.

Finally, she moved her finger outside the trigger guard and moved the weapon to low-ready — not aiming at anyone in particular, but still pointing at the floor in their general direction, just in case a target presented itself.

“Don’t pay attention to her,” Wilkerson said. “She’s part of the Community, she’s scared, and she’s about to leave.”

Behind her, Graham grabbed a fistful of the back of her shirt. She didn’t know what it meant, but she knew that it was an appeal for help. Still not ready to re-holster, she lowered the Glock a little more.

“I think we’re all right, Graham,” she said. This would be over soon, one way or the other.

The arriving team moved to surround Sarah Mitchell. In seconds, it was as if Jolaine and Graham didn’t even exist. It was actually the lack of attention that convinced her that it would be safe to holster her weapon. When it was secure, she turned her attention to Graham, looking him in the eye.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

He shrugged and made a jerky motion with his head. It might have been a nod, or it might have been just a twitch. His brain still wasn’t processing it all.

“Here it is, Graham,” she said. “We’re going to have to leave. The doctors will care for your mom, but there’s no place for us here. We need to move on.”

The terror in the boy’s face deepened and multiplied. “Where are we going?”

The truthful answer was I don’t have any idea. Instead, Jolaine said, “We’ll find a hotel room. We’ll kind of hide for a while and see what happens.”

“Who are we hiding from?”

Damn good question. “We don’t know yet. What was on that piece of paper? What did it mean?”

Graham shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. Tears balanced on his eyelids. “Mom said it was a code, so I guess it’s a code. But I don’t know what it means.”

“Please don’t lie to me, Graham. Not tonight.”

“I’m not lying, Jolaine. I can tell you that it was a string of letters and numbers — I could even recite them for you — and according to Mom, they’re some kind of code, but beyond that, I have no idea what they are.”

“Why are they important?”

“I don’t know that either.”

She believed him. “It’s time to go now.”

“What about Mom?”

Jolaine ignored that question and looked to the crowd that had gathered around Sarah. “Doctor Wilkerson!” she said. “I’m going to need a car.”

A voice from the clinical scrum said, “Find the kitchen upstairs. There are a set of keys on the hook by the door to the garage. Take whichever car you want.”

Really? It was that easy? So much about this just didn’t make sense.

“Let’s go,” Jolaine said. She put her hand back on Graham’s arm.

“But what about Mom?”

“Now,” Jolaine said.