Enigma (FBI Thriller 21)

“I told him he had to stand.”

Jack got slowly to his feet, his right hand clutching his left arm. He groaned and stumbled back against the yacht railing. Cam leaned toward him to grab him, whipped out her ankle piece and fired, center mass.

The bullet struck Petrov high in the chest. The force of the bullet sent him back into the pilot house. Still he managed to fire two more rounds at them as they dove behind a teak storage box on the deck. One of the bullets slammed into the box, but it was sturdy enough to stop the bullet from going through.

“Give it up, Sergei!” Jack yelled.

He came out of the pilot house, blood streaming down his leg, blood staining his chest, heaving with pain, with the loss of everything he saw as his by right. He didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. He fired at them, but the Beretta was empty. He pulled another magazine out of his pants pocket, shoved it in with bloody fingers.

Cam shouted. “Drop the gun or I’ll put a bullet through your throat.”

He yelled something in Russian, raised the Beretta.

Cam shot him in the throat.

60

ERIC HAINNY’S HOUSE

CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND

AFTER MIDNIGHT

Savich parked his Porsche in the circular driveway in front of Eric Hainny’s home on Kentfield Lane. The white, two-story colonial was set back from the road like most of the other houses in a quiet cul-de-sac, bordered by a thick copse of maple and oak trees. The half-moon still shone down on the neatly mowed grass, bordered by banks of petunias, impatiens, and flowers Savich didn’t recognize.

Savich rang the doorbell, waited, and rang again. He finally heard footsteps, a man’s mumbling voice. He looked into the camera above his head, knew he was being studied. He called out, “Mr. Hainny, it’s Agent Dillon Savich. Please open the door.”

He heard Hainny disarm the security system, unlock the dead bolt, and slowly pull open the heavy front door. Hainny looked like a different man without his Ralph Lauren suit and Italian loafers. He wore an ancient red flannel robe, belted at his ample waist, and old black slippers worn down at the heels. His graying hair was messed, and gray whiskers sprouted on his cheeks. He looked ten years older than he had yesterday at Rock Creek Park. He got in Savich’s face, snarled, “It’s after midnight. Why are you here? It isn’t about Saxon, is it? He’s all right?”

“Yes, Saxon is fine. I’m here to end it, Mr. Hainny.”

“End what?” Hainny looked at him blankly, took a step forward to block him. “I don’t know what this is all about but I do know you are overstepping your bounds again, Agent Savich. You shouldn’t be here in the dead of night,

you shouldn’t ever be at my home without my invitation. You will not come in unless you tell me right now what you’re doing here, and it better be good.”

“Sergei Petrov is dead.”

Hainny froze, blinked rapidly, then said carefully, “And why is that important? I don’t know a Sergei Petrov. Why would I care if he’s dead? I can’t imagine what you think his death has to do with me.” He straightened his shoulders, getting himself in control again, the chief of staff to the president once more. “I think you should leave now, Agent Savich. I’ll be speaking to the director in the morning and I will tell him of your inexplicable, highly inappropriate behavior.” Hainny stepped back to shut the door.

Savich held out a metal box. “I was going to give this to Saxon, but I realized it would be better if you had it.”

Hainny stared at the box, licked his lips. He stuck out his right hand, then drew it back, shrugged. “A metal box? What is that?”

“It’s exactly what you’re praying it is—the manufactured proof that Saxon murdered Mia Prevost. Agents found it in Petrov’s desk. Of course, you already know all about the contents, Mr. Hainny. I’m sure Petrov called you today, probably gloated since once again, thanks to Manta Ray, he had the box back in his hands.”

Hainny grew very still. He said very slowly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agent Savich.” He held out his hand. “Give it to me and I will look at the contents in my own time. Now I want you to get off my property.”

“Mr. Hainny, you are a good liar, you have to be, given your position, but you know as well as I that the contents of this box were being used to blackmail you. The Russians call it kompromat—compromising material they use on each other and, of course, on foreigners, to control them. With you, Petrov succeeded, and he would have continued to, if he still had control of the box. And if he were still alive, of course.

“I’m here at your home, Mr. Hainny, out of courtesy to you. I did not want to have to march into the White House to arrest you. It’s time to end this, sir. It is time for you to speak to me honestly, either here or at the Hoover Building.”

Hainny turned and walked down the wide entrance hall, his slippers slapping on the floor, to the last door on the right. He disappeared inside, flipped on the light switch. Savich followed him into a long narrow room, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves reaching up into shadows. A dark brown sofa sat in front of a dark stone fireplace, and a large mahogany desk dominated the other end of the room. The window behind the desk was covered with heavy, closed draperies. It was a dark room, a room with no color, perfectly suited to Hainny. Savich could picture him hunkering down in this silent, brooding room, weaving his plans in the shadows, deciding how and when to use secrets he had no right to know without compunction to get what he wanted.

Hainny walked to the sideboard, poured himself a glass of whiskey, drank it down, and slowly turned to stare, not at Savich, but at the small, gun-metal steel box he held. “Well, what’s in the box?”

“Saxon’s bloody shirt and T-shirt, several letters from Mia Prevost to Cortina Alvarez, a supposed friend of hers, detailing how Saxon’s behavior had changed, how he was becoming violent, ranting at her, trying to cut her off from her friends, that she was afraid of him, and didn’t know what to do. And of course the pièce de résistance—the knife used to kill her, her dried blood still on the blade, Saxon’s fingerprints no doubt on the handle. In short, more evidence than a prosecutor would need to convict Saxon of murder and send him to prison for life. And naturally, destroy your career as well.”

“There is no such person as Cortina Alvarez!” Finally, a spark of rage.