Reckless: a book tied to the Cotton Creek Saga (Shattered 1) Page 7

  *****

  “They turned right onto M.” Smith relayed into the car radio. With his eye trained on the car carrying Alexander, he coached his driver. “Keep your distance. We don’t want to spook them.”

  Special Agent Andy Smith was a twenty-year veteran of the force, an old pro. “Looks like they’re headed out of town. My guess is they’ll head for the Key. Stay on Hampshire and go for the freeway.”

  The driver, Agent Spinner, didn’t ask what Smith had in mind. “With luck and speed, it just might work.”

  Smith hit the lights, designating them as law enforcement. By avoiding the stoplights on M and taking the freeway they had a good chance of reaching the Key Bridge ahead of the white sedan.

  Spinner muttered a curse. “Damn, must be a wreck.”

  A black Mercedes had the street blocked. Two patrol cars were parked alongside it, with an ambulance parked behind it. Policemen had traffic stopped as paramedics loaded two men from the Mercedes into the ambulance.

  “Try L,” Smith said

  “L’s a one way.”

  “Do it!” Andy was determined to catch up with the white sedan carrying Alexander.

  L Street wasn’t any better. Everything was gridlocked. Spinner looked around for a way out of the mess.

  “Use the damn sidewalk!” Smith barked.

  Spinner maneuvered the car to the side of the road and pulled up onto the sidewalk so that two wheels rode on it. With the blare of his horn, aided by his siren and the lights, they managed to make it up L, then took 24th over to M.

  Smith gave Spinner credit. He drove like a pro, expertly weaving in and out of traffic to make up for lost time. As they topped the hill at 33rd Street, Smith could see the Key Bridge spanning the Potomac. He searched traffic and spotted the white sedan. Only half a block to go.

  Spinner started slowing to make a left turn onto the bridge. Without warning, two tractor-trailer trucks entered onto the bridge from Whitehurst Freeway and stopped in the middle, blocking all four lanes of traffic – closing the Key.

  Langley, Virginia

  Stork ushered Cord into a spacious conference room. A large rectangular walnut table dominated the space, easily accommodating the dozen chairs that sat around its perimeter. Two men sat on one side of the table, closest to the door.

  Stork took a seat across from them and gestured for Cord to take the seat to his right. Cord settled into the chair and looked at the two men across the table.

  “Mr. Alexander, I’m Supervisor Robinson,” one of the men spoke. “This−” he gestured to the man beside him, “is my associate, Agent Young. Before we begin, may I offer you something to drink?”

  “No.” At that moment a war was going on inside Cord. He had a real urge to be an asshole and demand to know what was going on and let everyone in the room know that he was sick and tired of being jerked around. Yet there was another voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Morgan, telling him to settle down and pay attention.

  Robinson opened a thick file on the desk in front of him and extracted a photograph. He slid it across the table to Cord. Cord looked at it. It was a photograph of his partner, Juan. He couldn’t imagine why the CIA would have a photo of Juan.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Mr. Alexander, do you know this man?”

  “Of course, I know him. That’s my business partner, Juan Ramirez. Why?”

  “Patience, Mr. Alexander. If you’ll just answer the questions this will go much quicker. Now, how long have you known Mr. Ramirez?”

  “About ten years.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “Through business. The company he worked for was a client. Later we went into business together.”

  “A client?” How did you come to have Mr. Ramirez as a client?”

  “Let’s see.” Cord put both elbows on the table and placed his forehead into the palms of his hands. He massaged his forehead and then raked his fingers back through his hair and straightened. “I was in business for myself at the time. A one-man band. A guy I know in the hardware business– computers, that is, sold a system to an Italian company that had set up a subsidiary office in Dallas. Vincon, USA was the Italian company.

  "The guy I knew gave my name to a lady who worked at Vincon as a manager and told her to call me about designing her software. She did, and when I went over to talk to her, I met Juan. He was the president of Vincon, USA.”

  “So, you did work for Mr. Ramirez?”

  “Yes. I got the account and worked on the project for over two years. When Vincon sold out, Juan and I went into business together.”

  “And you named the business Alexander Enterprises, Inc., correct?”

  “That’s what it was always called. Juan just bought in.”

  “He didn’t want to change the name? To have his name included? Was there a reason he didn’t want his name made public?”

  “I don’t know, we never talked about it.” The line of questioning puzzled Cord.

  “Very well, let’s move on. Have you ever met any of Mr. Ramirez’s family or perhaps any of his personal friends?”

  “Yeah, I met his brother once when he was visiting Juan.”

  “Do you know what type of business his brother is in?”

  Cord steepled his hands, absently pushing his palms together and then separating them. “As far as I know he’s a doctor, but I don’t know what specialty. Why?”

  Robinson ignored the question. “Do you know the whereabouts of Mr. Ramirez at this time?”

  Cord felt very uncomfortable with the questions. Has something happened to Juan? God, I’ve been so busy thinking about myself, I never considered that maybe he was in danger, too.

  “Mr. Alexander.” Robinson raised his voice slightly. “Do you know the whereabouts of Juan Ramirez?”

  “No.”

  “Have you seen Mr. Ramirez in the past three days?”

  Cord said nothing. He just stared at Robinson.

  “Mr. Alexander, I repeat, have you seen Juan Ramirez in the last three days?”

  “No.” The desire to be cooperative had vanished. Cord felt as if he was being grilled about something he knew nothing about.

  Robinson sat back in his chair and regarded Cord silently for a few minutes, then leaned forward and propped his forearms on the table with his fingers laced. “Mr. Alexander, do you know where Juan Ramirez was on April 22nd of last year?”

  Cord couldn’t believe he’d just been asked that question. “No, Why would I? Hell, I don’t even know where I was on that day.”

  “It’s okay, Mr. Alexander.” Stork spoke up beside him. “No need to get upset. Just answer to the best of your ability.

  Cord turned to look at the older man. Stork seemed to emanate an air of confidence and security. He looked like the kind of man you’d turn to for protection or advice. Well over six feet, Stork carried his weight well for an older man. His iron-gray hair and craggy face gave him an I’ve been there and lived to tell about it look.

  When he turned his attention back to Robinson, Cord felt calmer. “I don’t know where he was.”

  “Very well.” Robinson reached inside the folder and produced another photo which he handed to Cord. “Do you know this woman?”

  Cord had passed perplexity a good while back. The photo was of Juan’s wife, Maria. She wasn’t even involved in the business so what could she possibly have to do with whatever Robinson was getting at?

  The strain of all he’d been through, compounded by the fact that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday and had been awake for over twenty-four hours was acting against Cord and dulling his ability to comprehend the implications of the situation.

  He looked up from the photograph. “That’s Maria Sanchez, Juan’s wife.”

  “How well do you know Mrs. Ramirez?”

  “I’ve known her almost as long as I’ve known Juan. We’re friendly but not close. She spends quite a bit of time in Madrid with her family.”

  “Have you
ever been to Madrid with Mrs. Ramirez?”

  “No. I don’t have much time for travel, and if I did, I wouldn’t choose to spend it with Maria.”

  “Has any of your family ever visited with Mrs. Ramirez in Madrid?”

  “Yes, my daughter, Cable, is there now. Why?”

  Robinson didn’t answer Cord's question. “Since you first met Mr. Ramirez and his wife, have you ever noticed anything odd about their lifestyle, anything out of the ordinary?”

  Cord had moved beyond just feeling irritated. “Look, I don't pry into other people's lives. Juan’s my business partner, and he's my friend, but we keep our personal relationships to ourselves.”

  “No need to get angry, Mr. Alexander. I’m trying to find out if you’ve seen anything out of the ordinary occur while you were with either Mr. Ramirez or his wife – if you’ve heard them make reference to anything that seemed strange or out of place to you. Take your time. Think about it.”

  Cord had reached his limit, and Robinson's tone of voice had gotten on what Morgan would have called his last nerve. “Look, I’ve been as patient as I know how to be. I've sat here and answered a bunch of questions that as far as I can tell have nothing whatsoever to do with me getting chased all over Washington and shot at. I want to know what the hell’s going on and I want to know now.”

  As soon as the words “being chased all over Washington and shot at” emerged from his mouth, the men seated across from him looked over at Stork. Stork shrugged and said nothing.

  When Cord's outburst concluded, Robinson leaned closer to Cord across the table. “Why do you think you were shot at, Mr. Alexander?”

  “I don't know! The only thing I've been able to come up with is that it might have something to do with the missing nuclear waste.”

  All the men sat up straighter at the words missing nuclear waste. Robinson stared across the table at Cord for a prolonged moment. Just as he opened his mouth to speak there was a knock on the door. All heads turned as a young woman opened the door and announced that Stork had an urgent call. Stork excused himself and left the room.

  “Now, Mr. Alexander,” Robinson said, “You say you think it may have something to do with the missing nuclear waste. What leads you to believe that the two events are connected?"

  “Well, I can't think of any other reason why someone would shoot at me. I just figured that there must be some connection since the FBI came to get me right after I had heard from Tom about the missing waste. Then someone started trying to kill me while I was with the FBI, and I thought 'okay, it's probably the FBI guys they're after.' Then when I got back to the hotel, my room was torn apart, and I got the message from Morgan, I felt like it really did have something to do with the waste and me. And where exactly is Morgan? Her message said she was with you.”

  “All right, Mr. Alexander.” Robinson ignored the question, turned off the recorder on the desk and stood. “Why don't we take a short break? I'll have someone bring you in a cup of coffee and some doughnuts. As soon as Mr. Stork finishes with his call we’ll continue. If you'll excuse me.”

  Robinson left the room, followed closely by the ever-silent Mr. Young, who closed the door behind him.

  Robinson marched down the hallway to his office. As he opened the door, Stork called out to him from the opposite end of the hall. Robinson stopped and waited.

  “Sir, the call I received was regarding Cord Alexander,” Stork explained. “He's wanted for questioning by the FBI.”

  Robinson nodded and barked to Young. “Get the Secretary of Energy and the Director of the FBI on the phone, now!”

  *****

  Cord put his arms down on the table and lay his head down on them for a few moments, trying to collect his thoughts. When he sat up and looked around the room, his gaze fell on a file lying on the opposite end of the table. He cut a quick glance at the door, got up and hurried to the opposite end of the table. After another look at the door, he opened the file.

  Among the various documents was a folded paper. The moment he unfolded it, he knew what it was. A satellite shot. He studied the large photograph. Shown on the photo were 'hot spots' found from Canada to just below the Mexican border. He was able to locate the nuclear power plants and several nuclear weapons production plants. The site in Nevada blended with the readout of the Atomic Energy Commission’s Test Site on Nellis Air Force Range in Nevada, but something else showed up that was definitely out of place. In Pine Springs, Texas, a faint spot was visible.

  Cord knew there were no power plants in that area. So, what would cause such an occurrence? He folded the photo and returned it to its original place then paced around the room, his brain furiously analyzing a possibility that had just popped into his mind.

  Having circled the room, he sat down in the seat at the head of the table with his back to the door. As he gazed across the room, he could see his reflection looking back at him from a large ornate mirror that hung on the opposite wall. Staring into the eyes of his reflection, he sank deeper into his own analysis of the situation.

  Washington, D.C.

  With what she hoped was a casual air, Morgan made her way to the mass transit station at 23rd and I Street. Once on the train, she allowed herself to relax a little. Adrenaline still coursed through her body, bringing with it a slight quiver. She hoped her agitated condition wasn’t as visible as it felt as she considered her next move. How do I find Cord? Where would he be?

  The answer came to her in a flash. When the train reached the station at Farragut Square, she got off and caught another train at the Metro Center. She disembarked at the station near the Smithsonian Institute and sprinted up the stairs to the street above. It was less than a block to her destination.

  As soon as she entered the building that housed the Department of Energy and all its various subdivisions, Morgan made a beeline for the elevators and took the first available car. The moment the doors reopened, she bounded down the hall, strode passed Tom McGuire's secretary without a backward glance, and burst through the door of his office.

  “Tom, what’s going on? Where's Cord?”

  Tom, who was sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair, bolted to his feet with his eyes wide in alarm. Beneath the look of surprise, he looked tired, spent, and very, very old.

  Upon her demand, he explained the situation with the missing waste. All he knew about Cord was that he’d dropped Cord off at the hotel and had received a message from him not long ago. Once Morgan heard the message Cord left on Tom's voice mail, she was even more frantic.

  “Okay.” She made up her mind about what she had to do. “We have to get in touch with this Smith guy at the FBI. Well? Don't just sit there! Call!”

  Tom engaged the speakerphone, called and asked to be put through to Agent Smith.

  “Smith here.” A masculine voice came over the line. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, I don't know exactly how to explain this,” Tom's voice faltered. He looked up at Morgan. “Like I told the operator, my name is Tom McGuire. I’m Director of the NNSA.”

  “The NNSA?”

  “The National Nuclear Security Administration, a subdivision of the Department of Energy. I received a message from Cord Alexander telling me he would be at the FBI and he said I should contact you.” At Morgan's urgent gesturing and whispering, he added. "Is Cord there? His wife is here with me, and she wants to speak to him."

  “Mr. McGuire, if you would bring Mrs. Alexander over to the Bureau, everything will be straightened out.”

  “Sure, we can be there in five minutes.” Tom looked at Morgan as he hung up the phone.

  “Well, what are you waiting on?” she asked. “Let's go!”

  Before Tom could push himself out of his chair, she was out of the door and striding down the hall.

  Langley, Virginia

  A woman entered the observation room alone. A scant black skirt of clinging stretch material rode high on her shapely thighs, complemented by a form-fitting silk top that displayed her full br
easts. She would have presented a tempting picture had anyone been present to see her, but the room was vacant and dark.

  A window set in the opposite wall provided the only illumination. She brushed back her long auburn hair, quickly moved through the darkness and circled a large oval table. She stopped in front of the interior window with her eyes glued to the view it afforded.

  Beyond the pane of glass lay another room, much different from the one she occupied. It was dominated by a large oak conference table, and expensive wool carpeting covered its floor. Soft recessed lighting in the high ceiling cast a warm glow on the sole occupant of the room.

  “It's been a long time.” Her voice was no more than a husky breath.

  As she watched the man seated alone in the next room, her mind trailed off, back to another time. Images flooded her mind and quickened her breath.

  Suddenly the door to the dark room opened. She turned in the direction of the voice.

  “Cassandra, are you in here?”

  “Hello, Deputy Director, sir.” All her lust disappeared as she eyed his frame in the doorway.

  Washington, D.C.

  As soon as they reached the FBI building, Morgan and Tom went at once to the reception desk and asked for Agent Smith. They were directed to have a seat in the waiting area while the receptionist called Smith to announce them. Morgan sat nervously on the edge of a sofa beside Tom. She looked up as a man crossed to them and extended his hand.

  “Mrs. Alexander, I'm Agent Smith.”

  Morgan stood and firmly gripped his hand. Anxiety bubbled in her stomach like acid. “Hello, Agent Smith. This is Tom McGuire.”

  “Where is my husband?” She demanded as the men reached to shake hands.

  “Mrs. Alexander, if you and Mr. McGuire will please come with me.” Smith avoided looking at her.

  Her anxiety hitched up a notch at having her question ignored, but she nodded and followed him and Tom to the elevator. They rode to the third floor in silence.

  Morgan looked around as they exited. It looked like the entire floor was taken up by this one room. Numerous desks covered the floor space, separated into tiny cubical areas using wooden partitions that rose from the floor to desk height with glass completing the rise from desk height to ceiling. Along the west end of the room, four doors spaced equidistantly broke the blank expanse of the long wall.