Maybe we were about to catch the Weasel.
Chapter 36
HE HAD BEEN much more careful lately. The visit to Washington by George Bayer—Famine—had been a warning, a shot over his head, and Shafer had taken it seriously. The other players could be as dangerous as he was. It was they who had taught him how to kill, not the other way round. Famine, Conqueror, and War were not to be underestimated, especially if he wanted to win the game.
The day after Famine’s visit, the others had informed him that Bayer had come to Washington, that he was being watched. He supposed that was his second warning. His activity had frightened them, and now they were retaliating. It was all part of the game.
After work that night, he headed to the hideaway in Eckington. He spotted what looked like a half-dozen or so policemen canvassing the street.
He immediately suspected the other Horsemen. They had turned him in, after all. Or were they playing a mind game with him? What were the cops doing here?
He parked the Jaguar several blocks away, then headed toward the hideaway and garage on foot. He had to check this out. He had on a pin-striped suit, city shirt, and tie. He knew he looked respectable enough. He carried a leather briefcase and definitely looked like a businessman coming home late.
Two African-American policemen were doing door-to-door questioning on Uhland Terrace. This wasn’t good—the police were less than five blocks from the hideaway.
Why were they here? His brain was reeling, adrenaline rushing through his nervous system like a flash flood. Maybe this had nothing to do with him, but he couldn’t be too careful. He definitely suspected the other players, especially George Bayer. But why? Was this the way they planned to end the game, by bringing him down?
When the two policemen up ahead disappeared down a side street off Uhland, Shafer decided to stop at one of the brownstones where they’d been asking questions. It was a small risk, but he needed to know what was happening. A couple of old men were seated on the stoop. An ancient radio played an Orioles baseball game.
“They ask you about some kind of trouble in the neighborhood?” Shafer asked the men in as casual a tone as he could manage. “They stopped me up the block.”
One of the men just stared at him, terminally pissed off, but the other one nodded and spoke up. “Sure did, mister. Lookin’ for a cab, purple and blue gypsy. Connected to some killings, they say. Though I don’t recall seeing any purple ones lately. Used to be a cab company called Vanity. You remember, Earle? They had the purple people-eaters.”
“That was some years ago,” the other man said, nodding. “They went belly up.”
“I guess they were Metro police. Never showed me any I.D., though,” Shafer said, and shrugged. He was being careful to speak with an American accent, which he was good at imitating.
“Detectives Cross and Sampson,” the more talkative of the two men volunteered their names. “Detective Cross showed me his badge. It was the real deal.”
“Oh, I’m sure it was,” Shafer said, and saluted the two old men. “Good to see the police in the neighborhood, actually.”
“You got that right.”
“Have a nice night.”
“Yeah, you, too.”
Shafer circled back to his car and drove to the embassy. He went straight to his office, where he felt safe and protected. He calmed himself, then turned on his computer and did a thorough search on D.C. detectives named Cross and Sampson. He found more than he had hoped for, especially on Detective Cross.
He thought about how the new developments might change the game. Then he sent out a message to the other Horsemen. He told them about Cross and Sampson, adding that the detectives had decided to “play the game.” So naturally, he had plans for them, too.
Chapter 37
ZACHARY SCOTT TAYLOR is a thorough, analytical, and very hard-nosed reporter on the Washington Post. I respect the hell out of him. His relentless cynicism and skepticism are a little too much for me to take on a daily basis; otherwise, we might be even closer friends. But we have a good relationship, and I trust him more than I do most journalists.
I met him that night at the Irish Times, on F Street, near Union Station. The restaurant-bar is in an anachronistic, standalone brick building surrounded by modern office structures. Zachary called it “a dumpy little toilet of a bar, a perfect place for us to meet.”
In the time-honored tradition of Washington, I have occasionally been one of his “trusted sources,” and I was about to tell him something important. I hoped he would agree, and would convince his editors at the Post about the story.
“How’re Master Damon and Ms. Jannie?” Zachary asked as he sat across from me in a darkened corner, under an old photo of a stern-looking man in a black top hat. Zachary is tall, gaunt, and thin, and resembles the man in the old photo a little bit. He always talks too fast, so that the words all run into one another: How’reMasterDamonandMs.Jannie? There was just a hint of Virginia softening his accent.
The waitress eventually came over to our table. He ordered black coffee and I had the same.
“Two coffees?” she asked, to make sure she’d heard us right.
“Two of your very finest coffees,” Zachary said.
“This isn’t Starbucks, y’know,” she said.