Eileen Reed - Ground Zero Part 16

"In the confusion surrounding the body, the murderer steps from his hiding place and becomes one of the horrified crowd."

"Nice. I saw it on late-night TV last week," Eileen said dryly.

"Me too," Art said, and his shoulders slumped. "Besides, I was there. There wasn't anyone in the room."

"I've been watching the tapes. I've zoomed in so close, I can see a stray hair fall from Terry's back and land on the carpet behind her. Nothing."

"I could explain it in a Star Trek episode," Art said glumly. "A mysterious creature that could blend into the walls. I don't know."

"I want to know too. There's got to be a way. There was a way. Thank you for the coffee."

"I wish I weren't a suspect," Art said quietly. "If I could be here, watching the tapes, I might see something-"

Eileen shook her head no. Art pinched his lip between two fingers.

"Smart. I'd do the same. Wish I had an alibi, though."

"Believe me, so do I," Eileen said. "So do I." As the door closed behind Art, Eileen turned back to the machine. It was time to move beyond the Game start and see the discovery of the body. She wrote the time of Game start in her notebook: 7:57 A.M.

"They started early," Eileen murmured to herself. She poured another cup of coffee, and pressed Play.

Nelson Atkins swung away from the door, his hand to his mouth. He swung away from the door, his hand to his mouth. He swung away a hundred times, obeying Eileen's hand on the mouse key, until Eileen knew beyond a doubt Terry Guzman was not being murdered as the door opened. Her body was still and lifeless from the moment the door started its swing. Nelson could not have stabbed her or shot the screwdriver from some hidden device at the moment he opened the door. She would be twitching. She would be hitching, breathing a last breath, the headset falling from her head. Terry was absolutely still.

"d.a.m.n," Eileen said. She rubbed her eyes. Was there any way to view the tapes that she'd missed? She hadn't played them backward yet, but other than that she couldn't think of another way to look at them. The phone rang.

"Lunch? Shrimp bisque is our soup today. I never miss shrimp bisque."

"Sure, Jeff," Eileen said, feeling a ridiculous sense of guilt over calling a major by his first name. "Lunchtime already?"

"Lunch already. I'll be right over. I'll bring a guard so we don't have to lock up the Center."

"Okay."

Eileen hung up the phone and turned back to the screen. Lowell was being dragged into his cube by Sharon Johnson and Roberto Espinoza, his mouth a wide O of confusion and despair. Art Bailey and Joe Tanner stood side by side in their Truth Team doorway, looking with blank shock at Terry's back. Colonel Eaton, the smooth and elegant Air Force officer, stood with eyes round and wide, hands braced on the table in front of her. The audience members, seven military and five government civilians, sat in their chairs and held their hands over their mouths like little children watching a scary movie.

Doug Procell looked frightened. He looked behind his own back. He was the only one who realized or thought there might be danger. He sat down carefully against the wall of the Center and folded his trembling arms.

"Good acting, whoever you are," Eileen said to herself. She realized she was tapping a pencil against her teeth, and stopped. "d.a.m.n fine acting."

The door to the Center opened. "Shrimp bisque," Blaine said cheerfully. "Lunch break. Have you got anything?"

"No," Eileen said shortly.

"Oh. Well. Let's go get some food. Things always look better after lunch."

Eileen gathered her notes.

Paris, France.

Muallah closed Sufi's staring eyes with one gentle hand. She was a beautiful creature, or had been. Her skin was still warm and soft, still fragrant with the soap she liked to use. He was sorry to have to dispose of her, but there was no way to bring her with them. He'd honored her with one last visit from him, a last touch of his body to hers, before he had Ali strangle her. She had fulfilled her destiny and deserved that final gift.

Muallah turned away. Ali was just finis.h.i.+ng up at the sink. He'd washed the blood from his hands and his garrote, and was coiling it. His face was blank and smooth, as always.

"It is time," Muallah said. Ali nodded, and Muallah gave a last glance around the apartment. All was ready. The only things left were rubbish they did not want to bring with them. Muallah squared his shoulders, feeling a dizzying sense of excitement. The waiting was over. It was time.

16.

Schriever Air Force Base.

The shrimp bisque was as incredible as advertised. Eileen went back for another bowl. The cook, a tall, cheerful-looking young man, smiled over the steam table at her. His hair was black as a crow's wing and fell over his forehead.

"Nice, eh? One of my best."

"Delicious," Eileen said. "What are you doing out here? You should be a chef somewhere."

"I'm working regular hours," the man said. He wiped enormous hands on his ap.r.o.n and walked over. "You the detective, eh? Going to tell us who murdered Terry? Nice to meet you."

They shook hands.

"I work here because they pay me as well as a fancy restaurant. I get to cook for all the uppity-up military types that come out for the games. And I go home at five o'clock, instead of going to work at five o'clock. Can't beat it. John Wells, by the way."

"Eileen Reed. Thanks for the soup."

"Find that bad guy. I don't like thinking this place has a bad guy, eh?"

"I'll do my best, John," Eileen said, and found her way back to her table. She noticed Art Bailey and Joe Tanner sitting a few tables away. 'Berto joined them with a full plate of food. Joe's tray contained the remains of a salad. Eileen smiled. Art glanced over and waved a bit nervously. 'Berto and Joe also nodded, 'Berto with his shy pretty smile and Joe grave and unsmiling.

"The great detective contemplates the suspects," Eileen said gloomily, crumbling her crackers into the soup. "I'm probably ruining their lunch, looking over at them."

"Maybe," Blaine said, wiping his mouth. "We've never had a murder out here before. No one knows what to do or how to act. I think-"

Eileen never did find out what Blaine thought. There was a gasp and a half-smothered shriek from the tables by the windows. Eileen was out of her seat without thinking, her hand reaching for her gun, and because she was standing she got the best view out the window of an eagle sweeping down for a second blow on a prairie dog. The fluttering shadow of the first, missed strike was what brought gasps from the tables nearest the windows.

The eagle stood on the gra.s.s with wings extended, less than ten yards from the windows. The cafeteria was set at the edge of the developed portion of the base. Wild gra.s.ses grew to the distant fences beyond the gla.s.s.

"Is that a hawk?" someone said in a wondering voice. Eileen crowded to the windows with everyone else in the cafeteria. They stood watching the huge bird as it looked around, mouth open, fierce eyes blinking.

"That's a golden eagle," Eileen said. "What's it doing out here?"

"It can't see us," Joe Tanner said at Eileen's side. She looked up at him. He was quite a bit taller than she was. His face was rapt. His eyes were s.h.i.+ning like a child's. He was crowded close to her in the press of people at the gla.s.s, and she got a clear whiff of aftershave.

"An eagle," someone else said softly. "Wow."

"The gla.s.s is polarized. It can't see us through the gla.s.s," Art Bailey said.

The eagle glanced down at the tan body half-hidden in the gra.s.ses, and s.h.i.+fted its talons back and forth.

Twenty people stood watching, silent and delighted.

"I thought eagles had white heads?"

"That's a golden eagle. They're larger than bald eagles," Eileen said. "We have them back home. They love those prairie dogs."

"They've been getting mighty fat without any coyotes in here to eat on them," John Wells said. The cook was standing at the back of the small crowd, wiping his hands on his white ap.r.o.n. He looked as excited as everyone else, like a child who has been given an unexpected present. "I bet that bird decided those critters were just too fat to pa.s.s by."

"I wonder if it will nest here?" Joe asked no one in particular. A half-dozen murmurs answered him, and sighs.

"When the prairie dog is dead, she'll carry it off," Eileen said. "Sometimes they have to wait, because the strike doesn't kill right away."

As if the eagle heard Eileen, she raised her wings sharply and looked around. The talons s.h.i.+fted, found another grip, and with a powerful spring the eagle rose into the air with the prairie dog dangling below.

The crowd at the windows said "Aaah" in unison. The eagle dwindled, became a speck, and disappeared into the sky. Excited chatter burst out as people turned away from the window.

"Show's over," Blaine said.

"Wasn't that incredible?" Joe Tanner said to Eileen. "Wasn't she beautiful? Do you think she was a she?"

"Yes, I think she was a she," Eileen said. "Males are smaller. Maybe she'll hunt here more, if those prairie dogs are as fat as John says."

"I hope so. I was going to ask the boss what he was going to do about them. Those prairie dogs'll move right into the storeroom if we don't slow 'em down," John said. "We can't poison 'em, they're on federal property. Protected. Wasn't that pretty?"

"Let's go, Joe," Art said fondly. "You freak. We're going to be late for the meeting."

'"Bye," Joe said to Eileen. He looked embarra.s.sed, as though he had just remembered who she was. "Thanks."

"Sure," Eileen said.

For a moment she and Joe Tanner and the others had been simply people watching something extraordinary together. She wished the moment had lasted longer. She wished the prairie dog had put up more of a fight. She smiled at herself in mockery.

"You ready?" Blaine said.

"I need to find a phone," Eileen replied. "I have to call my boss."

Harben's voice on the phone line was chilly.

"You going to spend all day out there? You haven't started the Pendleton case yet."

"I've got a lot to do here."

"I'm sure you do. Try and make it back before six o'clock. I want to discuss the case with you."

"Shall I bring dinner?"

"Very funny. No, I brought my own supper today." Was there the ghost of a smile in Harben's voice? "Bring whatever greasy concoction you wish, but be here by six, please."

"I expected candles and music," Eileen said, and hung up before Harben could respond. That was the only way to win.

"Ready to go back up? You know the numbers now?" Blaine asked as Eileen turned away from the phones.

"Yeah, I'm ready. I'll be leaving about five-thirty or so. I have a meeting with the Captain at six."

"Leave at five or you'll be late," Blaine advised. "It's a longer drive than you think."

"Okay," Eileen said absently. "Thanks."

Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia.

Lucy munched thoughtfully on a Hostess Twinkie. She licked whipped cream from her upper lip. The files were all on-line, including the pictures and the maps. George Tabor was terrific. He'd been trained and installed by the GRU, the military branch of the KGB, and at the fall of the Soviet Union had somehow managed to position himself as a freelance spy.

One of the FBI agents had even ended up going to bed with him, and her report was unblus.h.i.+ngly specific. She hadn't been ordered to sleep with him, she'd just ended up there. George was so darn American. He was romantic and full of laughter. The FBI agent had been rea.s.signed immediately after the report.

"Yeah, no s.h.i.+t," Lucy said to herself. She grinned around the Twinkie. The female agent had not been able to find any proof that George Tabor was the spy they all knew he had to be. George was so deeply undercover there was nothing the CIA or FBI could do but watch him and hope he made a mistake.

Lucy moved on to the foreign files, the CIA-gathered intelligence on the buyers. There were a surprising number from half a dozen countries. Missile Defense information was hot. Lucy clicked her tongue. The Germans? That seemed odd. The Americans were so tightly allied to the Germans, they would probably give the Germans defensive systems once they were made public.

Lucy looked up Mr. Johann Wulff. No picture. His profile was spa.r.s.e.

Wait a minute.

Lucy leaned forward. The last known location of Mr. Wulff was Paris, France. Paris.

"I think we have our last contact," Lucy murmured. "Who are you, Mr. Wulff? Inquiring minds want to know."

She reached for the phone.