The Solomon Effect

65

By the time Rodriguez reached Rock Creek Park, the first flakes of snow had begun to drift down from the heavy sky. He cut quickly through the trees, to where the wide arch of Boulder Bridge soared over the rocky stream, the bridge a swath of hard gray against a quickly whitening backdrop of slender, snow-covered beech and gently rolling hills.

The snow did not please him. But the flakes were big and wet, and would soon melt. He would like to have arrived sooner, to set up an early watch; but Colonel Sam Lee had not yet arrived.

Stationing himself in the shadow of the bridge’s abutment, Rodriguez had not long to wait before the Colonel came hurrying down the path toward him. Reaching the bridge, Lee looked around nervously, his shoulders hunched, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his parka. Rodriguez watched the man pace nervously back and forth, and decided the General was right: Lee was becoming a danger.

Rodriguez stepped from behind the stand of dogwood that grew near the end of the bridge. Colonel Lee was about to become the victim of another mugging in Rock Creek Park. Jax stood at the entrance to the Grand Ballroom of the Renaissance Washington Hotel, where a myriad of tiny white lights sparkled above linen-draped round tables set with gleaming white china. Emaciated women in haute couture and wicked high heels mingled with self-satisfied men in hand-tailored Italian suits or ribbon-encrusted uniforms, their voices a low roar of polite chitchat or earnest networking. Vast urns of peach-colored roses and orange lilies filled the air with a heady perfume and served as an unwelcome reminder that today was Halloween.

Jax paused next to his former stepfather. “Don’t you get tired of this sort of thing?”

Paul Ginsburg laughed. “Some people enjoy getting shot at. I enjoy…this.”

Jax’s gaze fixed on the far side of the room, where Sophia Talbot, luminous in Armani green silk, laughed with the current secretary of the treasury, who just happened to be ex-husband number five. “Isn’t it awkward, constantly finding yourself in the same room with your ex-wife and her various other ex-spouses?”

“Actually, we’ve formed something of a club.”

Jax made an incoherent sound deep in his throat and said, “Better introduce me to the General, quick, before she sees me.”

General Gerald T. Boyd turned politely at their approach. He was a big man, well over six feet, with the brawny torso and tan, weathered face of a man who believed that just because he’d reached the rank of lieutenant general was no reason to stop jumping out of airplanes and charging over obstacle courses with the toughest of his men.

“It’s a privilege to meet you, General,” said Jax, shaking his hand. “A real privilege.”

“Excuse me,” said Ginsburg, moving on.

“I ran into an old associate of yours the other day,” said Jax, when the General made as if to turn away. “A mercenary by the name of Carlos Rodriguez.”

The General swung back to face him. The faint, polite smile of a politician never left his lips, but his eyes were cold and hard and decidedly hostile. “I think the Major prefers to think of himself as a private military company contractor.”

“Any idea who’s contracting his services these days?”

“Right now? No.”

“What can you tell me about him?” said Jax, lifting a mimosa from the tray of a circling waiter.

“Rodriguez? He’s a fine soldier, and an outstanding American. I’ve never known him to take on an assignment he couldn’t accomplish. Why do you ask?”

Jax took a slow sip of his drink. “I’m afraid Rodriguez and his boys have been involved in some recent incidents that weren’t exactly laudable.”

“Oh? Where was this?”

“Kaliningrad.”

Jax watched the General’s face. Boyd had obviously learned long ago to control every muscle of his face, every gesture, every nuance of stance and movement. But he couldn’t hide the gleam of lethal rage that flashed in the depths of his steel-gray eyes. “You must have him confused with someone else.”

“I don’t think so.” Jax raised his glass and took another swallow. “You’re certain you’ve no idea who he might be working for?”

“Sorry. I can’t help you.” Boyd shifted his gaze to the far side of the room. “Excuse me.”

Jax was still standing there, sipping his mimosa, his gaze following the General’s determined progress across the crowded room, when Ginsburg walked up to him.

“Think he’s involved?” said Ginsburg.

Jax drained his glass. “He’s involved.”