Veil

23

Two miles from the hotel, walking fast, Andre heard the faint squeal of sirens in the distance. He took a left off M Street, stayed in the shadows, and melted into a splattering of homeless on Dupont Circle, striding down New Hampshire Avenue to a large empty house he cased a few days before.

He stomped up the steep driveway and slipped through a window, dropping down to the basement. He bent over to catch his breath, closed his eyes, and smiled.

After the commotion started, sparked by his note, the Russian quickly exited through the dock area just as he intended.

“Andre, Andre. I need you to stop,” said Sams, in a loud whisper.

Andre saw the agent’s weapon tucked in its holster, stopped, and swiped his size thirteen across Sams’ astonished face, spinning him around in a complete circle. Andre smashed his elbow under Sams’ nose, sending bone chips into his sinus cavity and skull. Sams flew backwards off his feet and crashed hard on the cement.

Andre pounced and mangled the vertebrae in his neck with one quick twist. Air wheezed and whistled morbidly from the agent’s mouth.

Andre dragged the body out of sight and slammed it against a shelf. Ten seconds…nine…Pulled the hunting knife from his ankle…five…four… and slashed Sams’ throat with the smooth end of the blade…two…one.

He didn’t stick around to see the spray of blood.

He sprinted down the alley to the street, and ran fifty yards to another off 22nd Street. Off came the uniform, fat suit, facial latex, and yellowed false teeth. On went a pair of stone washed blue jeans, a Georgetown University sweatshirt, Redskins cap and black leather jacket he hid there as a precaution, one of several spots in and outside the hotel where he stashed changes of clothing. He stepped onto the street a different man.

Andre opened his eyes, stretched, and grabbed a plastic bag hidden under the basement steps. He traded the Georgetown sweatshirt for a blue, button-down Oxford, slipped on a pair of black penny loafers, a navy-blue London Fog windbreaker, and gold-rimmed glasses, pronounced himself yuppie and climbed back outside. He hit an empty New Hampshire Avenue and hailed a cab. “Georgetown,” he told the driver, in his best American accent; Bostonian this time, his favorite.

The driver turned down M Street, back toward the hotel. Andre spotted a long line of slow moving cars up ahead. A roadblock. The cab driver, a burly black man, complained as though he and Andre were well acquainted.

“It’s just like that sometimes, Nathaniel,” said the Russian, reading the name off the cab license hanging on the dashboard. “Don’t worry about it,” he added, his enunciation pure Cambridge Ivy League. “I’m in no hurry.”

They moved closer to the front. Andre rehearsed an escape scenario in his head, mapping out what he’d do if the police got suspicious and asked him to step out of the cab. He examined his new drivers license and mumbled under his breath. “Bradley Stevenson, Portfolio Manager from Boston. Mutual funds. Fidelity.”

They reached the head of the line, where two testy police officers stepped to each side of the cab. “We need to see identification for both of you,” said the officer at the driver’s window.

Nathaniel handed him his driver’s and cab licenses. Andre passed his I.D. to the officer on his side. He leaned inside and bounced his flashlight along the backseat and floor like a prison spotlight. The light hit Andre’s face. The Russian dropped his mouth open and tightened his forehead, as though genuinely concerned. “What seems to be the problem officer?”

The officer focused hard on Andre’s face and license. It took so long for the officer to answer, Andre thought he’d been discovered.

“Where’re you heading tonight, Mr. Stevenson?” The officer didn’t crack a smile.

“To J Paul’s for a little dinner,” answered Andre, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I’m only in town for the night.” Several more glances and the officer nodded to his partner. “No problem, Mr. Stevenson. Sorry about the inconvenience.”

“Thank you,” said Andre, feigning nervous relief.

Less than ten minutes later, the cab dropped him on the corner of 30th and M. He hoofed it through the crowd to one of his favorite restaurants, J Pauls.

College students, foreigners, business people and tourists, packed the restaurant like sardines, laughing, talking, and joking, unaware a brutal murderer stood only a few feet away. Andre headed for the bar, his usual spot, where he could watch the news report.

“What’s up chief?” asked the bartender.

“Spicy shrimp,” said Andre. “A double order. And a Guinness stout.

I’ve worked up an appetite.”

Americans. S o easily fooled, so easily frightened.

“Here ya go my friend,” said the bartender, sitting a tall, dark glass of beer down in front of him. Andre took a long, slow swig, eyes half closed, and savored the thick, foamy brew.

He sat the glass down and nodded for another, turning his attention to the soundless television above the bar. A reporter pointed to the Ritz Carlton hotel, as police and agents hustled in and out. Judge Patrick, her face sheet white, dove inside a waiting car with Veil’s partner, Thorne, right behind her.

“Hot plate,” said a bright-eyed waitress, sitting his food on the bar.

He tipped her and dug into the shrimp, first sucking off the seasoning, then tearing away the shell, swallowing the Cajun flesh whole.

He stopped and looked around. He wished Vladimir were there eating shrimp, getting drunk and laid. Memories of the past played in his head like an old family movie. The more he remembered, the more he seethed with venom.

“Can you believe this?” the bartender interrupted, turning up the sound. “Did you hear what happened?”

“No,” Andre lied. “I’ve been working.”

“That nut case tried to kill another judge,” the bartender continued.

“Judge Patrick no less.”

“The Supreme Court nominee? That’s a shame.”

“It’s unbelievable what people will do. I hope they fry the asshole.”

“Yeah, he deserves it.” Andre finished his beer and motioned for yet another. A new stout replaced his empty glass, then another, and another. He continued to eat and drink, drink and think. He drained the last stout and paid the bill, tired, sleepy. A line of cabs waited out front.

A service for overzealous drinkers.

He gave the driver his address, jumped in back, and fought off the fog of sleep. The confirmation hearings were scheduled to start soon, and he’d put his final plan in motion. He knew his little act at the Ritz wouldn’t stop the judge. She’s stubborn and arrogant. After she’s sworn in, I’ll make my final statement. Take my final revenge.

I’m going to kill Fiona Patrick in her chambers. At the Supreme Court.