Incitement Page 18

  Richard Kates worked as a contractor for a venture capital company ostensibly looking for viable investment opportunities in emerging markets. The first thing that drew her attention was his extended tenure in the Marines, hardly the typical background for an investment advisor. A closer look at the company he was contracted by revealed a significant proportion of its ventures were related to either security consultancy or arms manufacture and she started to feel a stir of excitement. The company’s funding was particularly interesting. Eighty per cent of it came from a trust, set up and run by a Washington law firm, with the remainder coming from a variety of sources. Piercing the trust would be difficult and time-consuming. Looking into the management of the company was more easily arranged. It was at this point that the name of Andrew Brewer emerged.

  She kept reminding herself not to jump to conclusions, yet the longer she looked into Brewer’s background, the more difficult it became. He had formerly worked for the CIA, spending more than twenty years with the Agency before entering the private sector. The company he had subsequently founded, Spartan Personnel, had enjoyed a spectacular rise as a provider of lucrative defence contracts, making a practice of beating more established competitors during the tendering phase. In addition to his role as CEO of Spartan, Brewer served on the board of a number of smaller concerns, one of which was the venture capital company who had employed Kates. Her instinct told her that Brewer was the key she had been looking for, he had all the necessary contacts and means to put together operations like these, but caution forced to her to consider whether she was making too much of a tenuous chain of coincidences. After all, there was so much legitimate international business travel these days that almost any pattern might be present if you analysed flight records for long enough. Even if Kates was connected to the attacks, where was the solid basis for saying Brewer was involved? Was she so desperate that she was resorting to leaps of pure fantasy? Maybe so, but it was not as if she had a lot of alternatives. She couldn’t leave it here; she needed to pursue this to its conclusion.

  If her hunch was correct, she needed to determine what it might mean. Andrew Brewer, affluent businessman and respected former government employee, had set the major drug powers of the world at one another’s throats. What motive might he have? Was it to add such instability to the South American continent, where Spartan did most of its work, as to lead to a greater need for his services? That didn’t seem plausible but she was at a loss to think of another obvious motive. She knew she would need a compelling one if she was to convince Samuels or even Marshall that they needed to look at someone of Brewer’s reputation.

  She debated whether or not to call Tom. He was sure to have known Brewer considering their similar backgrounds and he was far better placed to comment on whether her suspicions were remotely credible. She reached for the phone and then stopped herself. It might be unfair, she thought, to put him in a position where he risked incurring the enmity of Brewer based on nothing more than her hunch. From the little she knew of Tom and based on how hard he had worked to help so far, he might feel obliged to take the risk. No, she would wait until she had something more solid to go on. She realised the danger that investigating Brewer posed to her own career but she couldn’t let this go. A check of the map revealed that Kates’ residence in Charles City, Virginia was within driving distance of DC. If she drove up there the next day, she could conceivably be a step closer to Brewer before the weekend was over. After so little progress for so long the prospect was impossible to resist.

  Early Sunday morning Mesi left the city, trying not to let her excitement get the better of her. The scenery changed gradually from urban sprawl to unspoiled countryside. It was a pity, she thought, that it took something like this to get her out of the city. Kates’ tax returns since the Marines had specified his main source of income as consultancy and a small recreational facility he owned. The facility hosted survival days for businessmen who wanted something more than the standard paintball experience, and he lived only a few miles away from it. She had no idea whether he would be home; for all she knew he could be travelling, but she could not call ahead. If she was to have any chance of learning something, she needed every edge she could get. Pre-warned, he could either have time to fabricate a plausible story for his trips or simply disappear. She passed a sign indicating only five miles to Charles City and felt butterflies start to flutter in her stomach.

  Roger Abeylan looked through his field glasses at the small window, satisfied with what he saw. For three days they had shadowed Kates, waiting for the right time. The instructions were clear: avoiding detection was paramount, the body must be disposed of so that it would never be found. Abeylan didn’t know what his target had done or who wanted him dead. He was happy to work through a broker – ignorance provided protection. Forewarned of Kates’ military service, he was careful not to rush. The opportunity had finally presented itself when Kates had headed out to the deserted survival centre on the Sunday.

  The facility was situated about a mile from the road and accessed by a dirt trail. Kates sat in the small hut which, along with living quarters for clients staying overnight and a storehouse, formed three sides of a square. Abeylan and his partner lay concealed in the high grass on the perimeter of the square. Even though they were confident the target was alone, they had decided to wait for him to exit rather than try to take him in the building. They would shoot him as he came down the front steps, bring their car up and load the body in the trunk. There was less chance of the unknown that way and less clean-up after the fact. Once they had ditched Kates’ car in the parking lot of the nearest train station, they would dispose of the body. Simple. Moving the car was a slight risk, but worthwhile, as it would delay questions being asked, an important consideration to the client.

  At last Kates stood up and put on his jacket. Abeylan signalled to his companion to get ready. They fired when he reached the second step. The body jerked, pitched down the steps and lay still. They moved in cautiously, only relaxing when there was no doubt of the kill. While his companion fetched their vehicle, Abeylan waited with the corpse.

  Perfect, he thought, almost done.

  There had been nobody at Kates’ house and his neighbours had been unable to say whether he was away. Mesi decided she would try the survival centre, and if he wasn’t there, she would write the trip off as a waste of time and head back home.

  What would she do if she did not get to talk to Kates? She felt she had definitely stumbled onto something with him and his connection to Brewer but, other than the time Thomas Hughes could spare her, she was working on her own. Given the number of ventures Brewer was connected to, a thorough background check on his corporate involvement could take months, even leaving aside his time at the Agency.

  Driving into the compound, she saw two vehicles in front of the main office and, momentarily, felt a rush of satisfaction. She had tracked down Kates; things might just be starting to look up, she thought. A man opened the trunk of one of the vehicles and started back around to the far side of the vehicle. His back was to her so he didn’t see her approach or hear her car and by the time she had closed the distance, he was already obscured. She slowed the car and was just about to cut the engine when he re-emerged accompanied by another man. Then she processed what was unfolding in front of her. The two men were labouring to carry what she recognised as a body bag.

  She started doing a U-turn. One of the men released his burden and levelled an automatic machine gun at her. Making a snap decision, Mesi gunned the car straight at him rather than continuing the turn, which would only offer an easier target.

  Her car smacked into the back of the parked vehicle, pinning the gunman’s legs between them and hurling the machine gun from his hands. Her body whipped forward on impact and hit the activated airbag with a hard jolt. Struggling to extricate herself from the airbag, she pawed at her door handle, aware of how vulnerable she was. She feebly pushed herself out onto the ground and drew her automatic as a hai
l of bullets ripped through her car, shattering the windows in a crescendo of flying glass. Her left shoulder ignited with a stabbing pain but, ignoring it, she scrambled on her haunches, up along the side of the car, hoping to position its engine block between herself and the remaining gunman. The man she had hit was lying across her bonnet, thrashing in pain, his legs crumpled terribly between the vehicles. Their eyes locked, both frozen for a second, before he gathered himself to alert his companion to her movement. If the gunman learned her exact position, his firepower was so superior that it would be over immediately. Left with no other choice, she fired three shots into the pinned man’s chest. There was an instant burst of fire and she could almost feel the bullets punching through the air above her. She was fairly sure he was on the far side of the two vehicles but did not know what direction he was moving in. Dropping to the ground, she caught a glimpse of his feet and saw him edging slowly back along the vehicles in the same direction as her but further toward the back of her car. Some way of initiating action was required; waiting and trying to respond was sure to get her killed. Calculating how quickly he was moving, she gambled, scuttling quickly on her hands and knees around the vehicles behind him towards the driver’s door of their car. She tried the handle gently. It opened with a sound she was sure he must have heard. It was too late, though, to go back. Crawling as quietly as she could, face down, across the seats, she lay there with her eyes trained on the passenger door window and prayed he did not see her first.

  The vulnerability of her situation struck her. If he changed direction or simply started spraying both cars indiscriminately, she would be dead. Her nerve wavered and she fought to resist the temptation to retreat from her position and make a run for it. The knowledge of how easy a target she would be over open ground was all that stopped her.

  The pain in her shoulder reared. For a moment she felt light-headed and lost touch with where she was before snapping back with an effort. Unsure how many seconds she had drifted, her heart was pounding, waiting for him to appear. Beyond her ragged breathing, she could hear nothing else.

  Hold the gun steady; focus just beyond the scope.

  She repeated this mantra over and over, trying to ignore the mounting discomfort. She glanced around and started to doubt whether she could see far enough beyond the window from where she was lying. If he was even a few paces away from the vehicle she might not be able to see him pass. She needed to adjust her position. Was it too late? Would she give herself away?

  Just do it quickly!

  She lost sight of the window for the briefest moment while she shifted her elbows on the seat, and when she looked back along the gun-sight, her vision was filled with the surprised face of the gunman. The barrel of his gun appeared.

  Oh God.

  Her whole left arm was numb, the hand unfeelingly supporting the other which was gripping the gun. It should have been such a simple thing to get her finger to squeeze the trigger, but despite the frantic instructions from her brain, nothing was happening. She looked directly into the muzzle pointed at her. The next second the world simply became a cacophony of noise.

  It took some time for her to register what had happened, that, somehow, she had survived. A quick mental inventory of her physical state revealed that other than her shoulder, there was nothing else seriously wrong. She clambered across the seats to look out the shattered window. His torso had been hit at least twice and he lay there motionless. Collapsing down into the car, she sank into unconsciousness. More than an hour passed before she could rouse herself to call for assistance.

  Samuels and Marshall had to wait more than a day before they were allowed to see her. She had been hit in the upper left side of her body. There was one clean exit wound while another bullet had shattered her collarbone and dispersed bone fragments through her trapezius. The doctors had removed the bullet, strapped her up and treated her for blood loss. Once she was out of surgery, she had been heavily sedated and left to sleep.

  When they entered her room, she sat upright in the bed, TV on with the sound turned down. The heavy strapping, IV drip and her pale complexion combined to paint a pathetic figure.

  “Diane, you sure know how to frighten us! I don’t know what to say, you shouldn’t have felt the need to go out there alone,” Marshall said awkwardly.

  She nodded slightly, trying to stay as still as possible but even that small movement brought on a wave of nausea.

  “We have some news on one of the assailants,” Samuels said, adopting a business-like air. “His prints identify him as a Cuban immigrant, Roger Abeylan.”

  “He had a record?” she asked.

  “In Miami. The police there say he was very bad news – a suspected contract killer. He served time but they never had enough to put him away for good.”

  “One of the officers we talked to said he suspected Abeylan had connections, friends, the type that could walk through walls,” Marshall added.

  “Spooks?” she asked, receiving a confirming nod.

  She told them about the link between Kates and Brewer. She could see the possible implications register with both men despite any doubts they might have.

  “Someone, let’s put the issue of whether it was Brewer to one side for the moment, was obviously looking to sever the ties to Kates,” Marshall said. “Problem is they succeeded. We don’t have anywhere near enough to approach Brewer. If there was someone else like Kates out there we could talk to ... ”

  She shook her head, the air of defeat evident.

  “Kates was our one chance. The only reason he showed up was someone’s sloppiness. Even if they’ve made other mistakes, it’s clear they’re cleaning them up.”

  “There’s no chance of finding this Lorcy you’ve spoken about?”

  “What do we have? A questionable physical description and a fictitious identity. I’ve been trying to track him down since I returned from France. For all we know, he’s been handled the same way as Kates.”

  “What about putting Brewer under surveillance?” Samuels proposed.

  Mesi didn’t think Samuels had quite come around to agreeing with her suspicions of Brewer’s involvement, but he clearly wasn’t blind to the scene before him or to the consequences if she were subsequently proved to be correct while he had simply ignored her.

  “We can talk about it,” Marshall answered and then added a warning. “But considering who Brewer is and the circles he moves in, I don’t know how feasible it is.” He quickly changed the subject, turning to Mesi, “Diane, we’ve been told we can’t stay too long but one of us will come back tomorrow. The doctors have said it’s going to take time for you to recover and I want you to listen to them. I’ll make sure you’re kept up to date on developments.”

  After they had left, she looked at the mute screen and desperately tried to ignore the wave of depression threatening to engulf her.

  The place he had picked for the meeting could not have contrasted more with their previous rendezvous. This was a part of Washington where green areas and recreational spaces were very low on the list of priorities. Down here, there were just two imperatives: get as much as you could and do all you could to hold onto it. Drugs flourished here, the inhabitants needing the temporary escape they afforded more than most. Children learnt lessons not found on any school curriculum, and their parents, already ground down by the bleakness, could do little to help them. Generations ago people here had left their doors unlocked and kids had played on street corners. Now flak jackets and armour-piercing bullets were the order of the day.

  He had chosen the lobby of an abandoned tenement right in the centre of the projects. The setting matched his mood perfectly. Poor judgement had jeopardised everything. He watched from a darkened recess as Brewer came through the main doorway and looked around searchingly. Brewer’s unease was palpable and the other man remained where he was, unannounced, watching, letting it build. As the contractor’s agitation became more and more pronounced it manifested in frequent glances at his watch and
lots of pacing back and forth. At all previous meetings, he had let Brewer set the time and place, happy to indulge him and accommodate his preference for having a small protection team. This time, he had issued a summons, which did not allow for any such luxuries. Deciding there was no more pleasure to be gotten from watching the contractor squirm, he emerged from the alcove. Brewer saw him approaching and, realising he had been spied upon, became visibly annoyed.

  “What the hell kind of game is this? I don’t think spur of the moment meetings are very wise. When we deviate from procedure we run the greatest risk.”

  He almost laughed at Brewer’s transparent attempt to seize the initiative.

  “Isn’t there something we need to discuss?” he asked.

  Brewer stared uncomprehendingly at him.

  “Roger Abeylan?”

  “Abeylan?”

  “You do know him, don’t you?”

  Brewer realised something must have gone wrong and the angry façade disappeared.

  “Yes, I’ve used him in the past. He’s always proven first class, as a matter of fact, I’ve decided to use him on the current clean-up phase. Is that a problem? We did agree to leave the details to me?”

  Again the obvious attempt to exert authority. He said nothing, letting Brewer work himself up even more. “His assignment has been given. It’s multi-stage but there are protocols. We can abort if you’re unhappy.”

  “Tell me, one of these stages, does it involve Richie Kates?”

  Brewer was surprised to hear him mention Kates by name; he had not thought his companion knew any of the individual operatives.

  “Yes, he’s someone I’ve evaluated as a potential security risk. Given time, he might be able to piece some of the operation together. We used him on some of the reconnaissance missions.”