I boarded an elevator with four other agents. We had our guns drawn and ready. “He’s extremely dangerous. Please take what I’m saying seriously,” I reminded them as we stepped from the elevator on the therapist’s floor.
It had been painted since the last time I was there. So much of this was familiar, hauntingly so. I was getting angry all over again about Patsy Hampton’s death, about the Weasel.
I pressed the bell at 10D.
Then I called out, “FBI, open the door. FBI, Dr. Cassady.”
The door opened, and I was staring at a tall, attractive blond woman whom I recognized.
Elizabeth Cassady recognized me, too. “Dr. Cross,” she said. “What a surprise. Well, no, it isn’t really.”
As she spoke I heard a wheelchair rolling up behind her. I raised my gun, pushing Dr. Cassady out of the way.
I aimed my weapon.
“Stop right there! Stop!” I shouted.
The wheelchair, and the man seated in it, came into full view. I shook my head and slowly lowered the gun. I held back a curse. I smelled a rat, or should I say a Weasel.
The man in the wheelchair spoke. “I’m obviously not Colonel Geoffrey Shafer. Nor have I met him. I’m a stage actor named Francis Nicolo, and I am physically impaired, so no rough treatment, please.
“I was told to come here and I am being paid handsomely to do so. I was instructed to tell you that the colonel says hello and that you should have listened to the explicit instructions you were given. Since you are here, you didn’t listen.”
The man in the wheelchair then bowed from the waist. “That’s my part, my piece. It’s all I know. How was my performance? Acceptable? You may applaud if you wish.”
“You’re under arrest,” I told him.
Then I turned to Elizabeth Cassady. “So are you. Where is he? Where’s Shafer?”
She shook her head and looked incredibly sad. “I haven’t seen Geoffrey in years. I’m being used, and so are you. Of course, for me it’s harder—I loved him. I strongly suggest that you get used to it. This is how his mind works, and I should know.”
So should I, I was thinking. So should I.
Chapter 30
THIS IS IMPRESSIVE, thought Captain Nikki Williams. And not the airfield meeting itself. The whole plan was dazzling. Audacious.
Manassas Regional was a small, nondescript airport spread over eight hundred acres, with two parallel runways. There was a main terminal building and an FAA control tower, but it was a very good spot for the mission.
Somebody is really thinking things through. This is going to work.
A couple of minutes after Captain Williams arrived at the airfield, she saw her helicopter setting down. She had two instant notions: where the hell had these people gotten an MD-530? And it was just right for the job she’d been given.
This was definitely going to work. It might not even be that hairy.
Nikki Williams hurried to the helicopter, carrying the Winchester in a cloth sling bag. The pilot had the other critical puzzle pieces for her. He was apparently the man with the final plan.
“I’m all fueled. We’re headed northeast, over Route 28. I’m gonna set down for half a minute or so in Rock Creek Park,” he told her.
“Rock Creek Park? I don’t follow,” Captain Williams said. “Why would you put down again once we’re airborne?”
“The park stop is just to get you up on the skid. That’s your position for the hit. All right with you?”
“Perfect,” Williams said. “I get it now.”
The scheme was daring, but it made sense to her. Everything about it did. They had even picked an overcast day with very slight winds. The MD-530 was fast and highly maneuverable. It was also stable enough to shoot from. In her army days, she’d fired thousands of rounds from them in all kinds of weather, and practice made perfect.
“You ready?” the pilot called back once she was on board. “We’re going to be in and out of D.C. in less than nine minutes.”