The End Game

Callan said, “Vanessa Grace is safe; she is no longer in residence at George Washington University Hospital. CIA agent Carrie Munson, armed not only with her Glock and red hair, but with a fast and sharp brain, is currently in her room, in her bed.

“As of five minutes ago, no sightings yet of Spenser, which is why I asked you to dress down. I want you all to go immediately to the hospital, look at everything with professional eyes, stake it out. Remember, he is our only link to Damari. We’re making sure the news story is spread far and wide so he’ll see it.”

Mike said, “Ma’am, I have only one concern. Is Spenser crazy enough to believe this isn’t a trap?”

“From what I’ve personally seen over the years, an ideologue whose closest allies betray him loses it big-time. I believe Spenser will implode, for want of a better word, that he’ll be pushed to kill her, for real this time. I’ve read the profilers’ reports on him and this is the picture they paint of the man.

“So yes, when Matthew Spenser finds out this betraying bitch somehow survived, he will certainly consider it’s a trap, but it won’t matter, he’ll have to come, he’ll have to see her alive with his own eyes, then he’ll try his best to get up close and personal and kill her.”

Savich nodded. “Agreed. Whatever Spenser felt for her, it morphed into instant killing hate the moment he found out what and who she really was.”

Nicholas said to the vice president, “You’ve seen a great many killers like this?”

Callan burst out laughing. “Killers? Well, yes, we all have, but you know what? I was actually thinking of politicians. Like Spenser, politicians want complete and ultimate control, they want destiny in their hands, and no one better get in their way. The TV series House of Cards? More right-on than not, only they’re not, thankfully, as brilliant as Kevin Spacey’s scriptwriters for Frank Underwood.”

She stood. They all did as well.

“Spenser’s history shows he isn’t known for collateral damage, but after Bayway, we have to assume Spenser and Damari are more alike now than they ever were, and you know as well as I do that Damari is one of the most dangerous assassins in history. Remember, he didn’t hesitate to murder three FBI agents in Bayo

“The three of you are going to face one of the monsters. I want all of you to be extraordinarily careful.”

Savich shook her hand. “Believe me, ma’am, we’re hardwired to be careful. We’ll coordinate with your people. And be in touch.”

“Excellent.” Callan handed each of them a card. “This is my personal cell phone. If you need anything, call me directly. Please, be careful.”

And they were dismissed.

•   •   •

As they drove away, Tony came to stand by Callan’s side, both of them staring after the Volvo.

“Think they can bring down Spenser?”

“Yes.”

“And Zahir Damari?”

Callan watched the car disappear around the circular drive, then turned. “I wish I knew, Tony. How to find him? I don’t know if Spenser even knows what Zahir is up to or where he’s at. But I do know one thing for sure: Damari is the most dangerous individual on the planet.”

She laid her hand on his arm. “Let’s brief the president about Damari and about those bombs.”

67

KNIGHT TO E5

George Washington University Hospital

Matthew wasn’t stupid. He knew the TV report on Vanessa had been leaked on purpose. The whole place had to be crawling with Feds, he could practically feel them, waiting, guns ready.

But it didn’t matter. If she was alive, he wanted to finish the job, he had to finish it. She’d betrayed him, she didn’t deserve to live, and this time he would make sure her eyes were vacant and her heart didn’t beat. He laughed, thought maybe he’d burn down the freaking hospital while he was at it, give a final salute to Andy.

He’d found a good vantage point in the garage across from the back entrance to the hospital. He’d sat in the darkness, waiting for three hours now, getting a sense of the ebb and flow of the area.

Hospital staff parked here. The right person would come, sooner or later. He was patient, something he’d had to learn during his years with Ian.

Hospital employees walked in and out of the garage, wearing scrubs and clogs, some in white coats, carrying messenger bags and backpacks. A few biked to work, then changed their shoes. Some left, more came.

There was a shift change at six in the morning. Nurses began flooding the garage. He stepped from the car, into the meager sunrise, watched for someone his size and hair color. It didn’t take long.

There he was. He rode a bike; it was chained up twenty feet from where Matthew silently waited. He took off his white coat—a doctor, then, or an intern, not a nurse—folded it carefully, and put it in his messenger bag. Matthew waited for him to get on his bike and start down the ramp. He got back in the car and drove, careful not to be seen by the cameras, turning his head away at the right moments. The plates would be visible; no matter, he intended to ditch the car the moment he had the ID anyway.

The doctor took a right out of the garage, began pedaling down New Hampshire Avenue toward the Potomac. Matthew followed, slowly now, making sure he kept him in sight. A bike meant he lived close by.

Within minutes, they were at the entrance of the Watergate Apartments. The doctor stopped at the Watergate Café. Matthew followed him in, watched him standing in line. He got coffee and a roll, tucked in right there like he was starved.

When he came out of the café, a second coffee in his hand, he walked his bike toward the Watergate garage.

Matthew took him from behind, jerked him back into the bushes, slapping his hand over his mouth. It was risky since there were a couple of people not twenty feet away, but he found, oddly, that he didn’t care. It didn’t take him more than a moment to decide—he slipped his knife into the doctor’s heart, and the man dropped like a stone.

Matthew stripped him of his badge and the white jacket he’d stashed in his messenger bag, plus his wallet, in case they needed two forms of ID. His name was—had been—Aaron Tasker. He left him there in the bushes and didn’t look back. He realized he didn’t feel a thing. Not a single bit of fear or remorse, nothing. He was a man on a mission, and he knew he had to win this time. But what if he didn’t win? Focus, he thought, it’s time to focus.

Matthew took the bike and rode back to the hospital.

As he pedaled, he found himself remembering how he’d felt the moment he’d heard he was a Rhodes scholar and was on his way to Oxford. He remembered how he’d been acknowledged as a genius in the scientific field, remembered the stark happiness, the pride his parents felt, and how he’d basked in the honors flowing over him.

And then the bombings happened, his family blown apart simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And he remembered clearly that day he’d become a different man with a different future.

In a blink of an eye, he’d lost everything, and his rage festered and grew. And he’d met Ian McGuire in that pub in Italy, and they’d hooked up. He remembered Ian praising him endlessly, calling him a genius, so proud of him as he developed his new bomb, one smaller than the usual, and he’d figured out how to make it light and portable, and best of all, undetectable. His invention, his genius, and the rest of the world was still working with DIME bombs, Semtex, C4. He’d created something new. Powerful. And useful.