A Brewing Storm: A Derrick Storm Short (3 page)

“Then you can pay the check—Mr. Steve Mason.”

He watched her walk away from the table, admiring the dazzling results of her yoga routine hidden under her tailored slacks. As soon as he’d signed the bill with his room number and fake name, Storm followed her. But by the time he reached the lobby, she was already behind the wheel of her BMW. He stepped outside the hotel’s double doors just as she was driving away. As he watched, he saw a black Mercedes-Benz sedan pull from a side street near the hotel and begin to follow her.

Storm recognized the red, white, and blue license tag. It was a diplomatic plate.

Hurrying back to his suite, he used his portable computer to log on to the Internet. Diplomatic plates contained a two-letter code that identified which country had been issued the plate by the U.S. State Department. Periodically, the code letters were changed and reassigned. GB was never used on tags from Great Britain and IS was never used for Israel, because that would make it too easy for potential enemies to identify the car’s occupants.

Storm had seen the letters YR on the plate of the Mercedes following Showers. Within seconds, he’d broken the code.

What had Jedidiah Jones gotten him into? Why would a diplomatic car from the Russian embassy be tailing Special Agent Showers?

Chapter Five

The hotel phone in Storm’s suite woke him from an alcohol-induced slumber. Several jigger-sized whiskey bottles pillaged from the hotel’s minibar littered the nightstand. He’d stayed up late trolling for information on the encrypted computer network that the CIA and other federal intelligence services could access via the Internet. His searches had led him to several clues. But what he’d uncovered remained disjoined pieces of a puzzle that still needed to be assembled.

At around 3 A.M., Storm had gone to bed, but he’d found it difficult to sleep. He’d known why. It wasn’t the kidnapping. There were two reasons, and both had to do with his return to Washington, D.C
. Clara Strike
and
Tangiers
. Sometimes only Jack Daniel’s could help a man black out his past.

A woman’s voice on the telephone line said, “Senator Windslow is calling.”

Storm checked the clock next to the king-sized bed. It was a few minutes after 6 A.M. His head was throbbing. The next voice he heard was Windslow’s. “Those bastards left me another note—this one at my house.”

“Did they send anything else?”

“No teeth or body parts, if that is what you’re asking. But they raised their ransom demand.”

“How much?”

“Six million! I’m at my house in Great Falls. Get out here now!”

Storm jotted down the address and asked, “Have you called Agent Showers?”

The question was met with silence. Finally, Windslow said, “I don’t want her or the FBI involved. I’ll explain when you get here. Don’t call her, that’s an order.”

An order? That was something Storm would need to clear up with Windslow. Only Jones gave him orders, not a politician.

Storm went downstairs to claim his rental car. The valet brought him a white Ford Taurus. It was not what spies in movies used, but it was perfect for blending in around Washington and its suburbs. He drove to Constitution Avenue, turned right, crossed the Potomac River, and headed north on the George Washington Parkway until he reached the Capital Beltway, a major highway that encircled the city. Exiting west onto the beltway, he went farther into Virginia. It took him another ten minutes to reach Great Falls, a heavily wooded, rolling suburb dotted with multimillion-dollar Colonial estates. He assumed he was being tracked electronically—if not by the CIA then by the FBI. There was probably a bug planted somewhere in the Taurus, or they were using the cell phone that Jones had given him. At this stage, he didn’t care.

Senator Windslow’s driveway was barred by an ornate, monogrammed iron gate. Storm pushed a button on a speaker mounted at the driveway entrance, and when the gates swung open, he drove along a circular driveway bordered by a carefully manicured lawn. An older black maid answered the front door and escorted Storm into the grand foyer, which had an imported Italian marble floor and a massive Versailles chandelier made of crystal and oxidized brass. Rising directly in front of him was an elaborate double staircase. A portrait was hung next to the first step on each side. One painting was of Senator Windslow and the other was of Gloria Windslow. Because each painting was hanging next to the first step, it gave the impression that the senator used one flight of stairs and his wife the other. The artist, Storm noted, had been shrewd enough to recognize that his patrons placed a higher value on flattery than realism. Both of the Windslows looked like British royalty.

Senator Windslow appeared in a dark blue nylon workout suit with a curled up towel resting on his shoulders and his forehead beaded with sweat.

“I ride my stationary bike for an hour every morning,” he explained. “Gives me a chance to exercise while I read the papers and watch the news.”

Storm followed him through a side door into a wood-paneled study where the maid had placed a pot of coffee and two mugs on a table edged by three leather chairs. They matched the brown leather chairs in Windslow’s office. Storm spotted another pair of Longhorn steer horns mounted on the wall, just like the ones that he’d seen on Capitol Hill. Obviously, the senator’s decorating taste was the same whether he was at home or work.

“Hattie, our housekeeper, fetches me the newspapers each morning from the box at our gates while I’m exercising,” Windslow said, as he poured himself coffee and took a seat. He nodded at Storm, indicating that he could pour himself a cup, too, if he wished. “This morning,” Windslow said, “Hattie found this at the gate.”

Windslow nodded toward an opened manila envelope on the coffee table, along with a pair of yellow rubber gloves.

“Has anyone checked the note for prints?” Storm asked.

“No. Put on those gloves there before you handle it. I had Hattie get them from the kitchen.”

Storm pulled on the gloves. They were tight. He removed the letter and asked, “Does your wife know about this new demand?”

Windslow shook his head. “She’s still sleeping upstairs in her bedroom.”

Her bedroom. He hadn’t said “our bedroom.”
Apparently using different staircases was not the only thing that the couple did separately.

This new note—the third from the kidnappers—looked much like the first ransom demand. It was handwritten in block letters and contained specific instructions.

“GO TO YOUR SAFETY DEPOSIT BOX AND REMOVE THE SIX MILLION YOU HAVE STASHED THERE.”

While Storm was reading, the senator said, “My stepson must have told them about the six million. I should’ve known that little bastard couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Probably told them about it when they were jerking out his front teeth.”

Six million dollars in a safety deposit box. Storm marveled at the way the senator had just let that drop, as if having that kind of money just sitting around in cash was the most natural thing in the world. Showers had been right about Windslow. He was indeed on the take. No wonder the Great Man had wanted to see him alone. Seeing as things were just starting to get interesting, Storm decided to play along.

“Why’d your stepson know about it?”

“The box is rented under his name.”

The note instructed the senator to remove the six million from the bank before closing time today. It was to be divided into four equal piles of $1.5 million, and each pile was to be put into a gym bag. At exactly 6 P.M., the kidnappers would call Samantha Toppers on her cell phone with instructions on where to deliver the bags. She would need a car because the bags would be dropped at different locations around Washington, D.C. If the FBI attempted to monitor the deliveries or to intervene, the kidnappers would kill Matthew Dull.

Jabbing his bony finger at the ransom demand, Windslow said, “Make sure you read that last line carefully!”

“HAVE STEVE MASON DRIVE SAMANTHA TOPPERS TO THE BANK AND ON THE DELIVERIES TONIGHT.”

“How in the hell do the kidnappers know about
you
?” Windslow asked in an accusatory voice, “and why do they want
you
driving my future daughter-in-law around with
my
six million in cash?”

Storm had to admit it was an interesting question.
Clearly there was a leak, an informant, tipping off the kidnappers.
But Storm didn’t like Windslow’s tone. The senator might have gotten away with bullying his way over others, but not Storm.

“I’ve got a few questions of my own,” Storm replied, ignoring Windslow’s question. “Why don’t
you
want the FBI to know about this note?”

The senator replied, “Because that six million is what we call 'walking around money’ in politics. Texas is a big state. Lots of people have their hands out come election time. I don’t think Agent Showers or the Justice Department would understand.”

“Neither would the IRS,” Storm said. “It’s bribe money.”

“C’mon, son. Jedidiah told me you had street smarts. How do you think campaigns are run? I use that cash to grease a few palms. It’s no big deal. It’s expected.”

“I’m not talking about greasing palms in Texas,” Storm replied. “I’m talking about your palms getting greased.”

A flash of anger washed over Windslow’s face. No one talked to him like this. But he kept his temper in check. “Where that money came from is none of your goddamn business,” he said. “You’re not here to investigate me. Look, what choice do I have? The kidnappers are demanding six million or they’re going to kill my stepson. I can’t go to the FBI because the six million is off-the-books income. I need you to do this for me. I need you to do it without telling the FBI.”

Having carefully returned the ransom note to its envelope, Storm removed the rubber gloves and said, “The kidnappers know where you live.”

Windslow said, “Everyone knows where I live. It’s no goddamn secret.”

“The kidnappers know you’ve got six million in cash in a safety deposit box and you can’t tell the FBI about it.”

“Yeah, and they also know about you, Mr. Steve Mason, or whatever your real name is.”

“They seem to know an awful lot.”

“We got a leaky faucet,” Windslow said.

“Any idea who?”

“No. I’ve been going over names since the note arrived.”

“How about Samantha Toppers?”

“Samantha?” Windslow repeated, breaking into a toothy grin. “That girl’s bra size is twice her IQ. She’s not smart enough to be involved in this. Where would she find four men to kidnap Matthew? Kidnappers don’t advertise on craigslist. Besides, she’s a trust fund baby. She’s got no need for my money.”

“My experience has been that the richer you are, the more you want. The kidnappers have asked her to deliver the ransom twice now. Why her?”

“She loves Matthew and she isn’t going to take my money and disappear. I told you, she’s loaded. Her parents died in an accident and left her millions. Besides, she’s not exactly a threat to them since she’s so puny. ”

“Could she and your stepson have dreamed up this entire scheme?” Storm asked. He watched Windslow’s face for a reaction. Surprise. Anger. Anything. But there was nothing, and that suggested the senator had already considered the idea.

“Matthew is too vain to let someone pull out his four front teeth,” Windslow said. “Also, the safety deposit box is in his name, and he knows I can’t complain in public if that cash vanishes. He could have gone in and taken it without faking his own kidnapping.”

“What about your congressional staff? A disgruntled employee, maybe?”

“Haven’t fired anyone in years, and only a couple of them know Matthew is missing.”

“That leaves only two other people who could’ve tipped off the kidnappers about my arrival last night,” Storm said. “You and your wife.”

Windslow smirked. “Why would I kidnap my stepson and demand six million in cash—money that’s already mine.”

“That narrows it down to your wife.”

Windslow set down the coffee mug that he’d been cradling. “I’m going to tell you a story. A year ago, I had a heart attack and it almost killed me. Gloria never left my side. She nursed me back to health. By that time, we’d been married for nearly twenty years. Marrying a younger woman caused tongues to wag. Everyone thought Gloria was a gold digger waiting for me to die. But that woman really loves me. She proved it when I got sick. After I recovered from my heart attack, I tore up our prenuptial agreement. If I kick off today, Gloria gets everything and that’s more than the six million walking around money that these bastards want. Besides, Gloria wouldn’t put her son through this. She spoils that kid rotten.”

“Where’s the leak then?” Storm asked.

“Why are you assuming it came from my turf? Those instructions—telling us to divide the money into four piles so they can be delivered at four different sites—that sounds like something the CIA would dream up.”

“Jedidiah Jones?”

“Son, I’ve been dealing with the agency for a long, long time, and you never can be certain what Jones and his buddies are doing. For all I know, Jones could be playing some sort of game here.”

“I owe my life to that man.”

“That don’t mean he wouldn’t use you—to get to me.”

“For what reason? Why would he risk kidnapping the stepson of a U.S. senator on U.S. soil?”

Windslow shrugged. “All I’m saying is he’s the one who brought you here, and he has contacts with plenty of ex-military who would know how to pull off a kidnapping. Plus, the kidnappers want you riding around with my money.”

“Motive? Jones could steal millions at his job. He doesn’t need to rip off you.”

“Maybe he’s got other reasons.”

“Since you’ve opened that door,” Storm said, “what’s the covert mission that you and Jones are fighting about?”

A flash of surprise appeared in Windslow’s eyes.

“I’m not opening any doors. Our disagreement has nothing to do with this, nothing. Don’t try to go there.”

“How about Ivan Petrov?” Storm asked. “Could he have something to do with your stepson’s kidnapping?”

The Russian was one of the names that Storm had come across during his late night probe on the intelligence network. Petrov was an oligarch who the CIA was monitoring. He’d recently had several dealings with Windslow, according to CIA INTEL bulletins.

The mention of Petrov’s name sparked an instant reaction that Storm hadn’t expected.

Windslow sprung from his seat toward the chair where Storm was sitting. Towering over him, the senator said, “You’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong now. Who the hell do you think you are? How dare you come into my house and accuse me of taking bribes! How dare you accuse my wife of being in cahoots with the kidnappers! How dare you ask about private intelligence matters between Jones and me! Why did you mention Ivan Petrov just now? Did Jedidiah put you up to that? Is that why he brought you in—to investigate Petrov and me?”

Windslow hesitated for a second, clearly thinking about his next step. Still fuming, he said, “Listen, son, all I need to know from you right now is whether you’re in this thing tonight or you’re out. I can arrange for Toppers to get the six million from the bank. But I’m going to need time to find someone else to drive her around if you back out. Are you in this thing or not?”