Mistress(90)

“Explain what you say,” Kutuzov says to me, sweating now, his hand trembling as he approaches me with the gun aimed at my head.

“I didn’t record this,” I say again. “But you did, Alex.”

His eyes widen. He knows I’m right. He’s been wearing a wire so his entire team, including the sharpshooter, Victor, can listen in. That’s why he had to walk away when his goon checked me for a recording device. The detector would have gone off because of Alex’s wire, which is probably tucked under his shirt and taped to his chest.

“You’ve been sending an electronic signal to your people all around the National Mall,” I explain. “The Metropolitan Police Department intercepted that signal, Alex. Everything you’ve said to me is on tape now. Amazing, the technology law enforcement has.”

“You’re bluffing,” he spits, trying to show disdain but unable to hide his growing fear. “These are all lies!”

He’s talking to me, but he’s really talking to his team listening in. They aren’t loyal to him; they’re loyal to the Russian government. And Alexander Kutuzov needs to convince them that he hasn’t just become a very big liability—a man who is about to be arrested by the DC police, a desperate man who would confess to Operation Delano in order to save himself from the death penalty for killing DC cops.

And then I hear the sweetest sound, the melodious song I’ve been eagerly awaiting.

The sound of police sirens. Metropolitan Police squad cars racing to the National Mall.

“Here they come,” I say. “They recorded the entire thing and now they’re here to arrest you. You better start thinking about that deal you’re going to cut.” I raise my voice for that last comment to make sure his team hears it.

“Lies!” Kutuzov shouts. “The police are after you, not me.”

“Okay, fine, Alex. Let’s both sit here and see which one of us they arrest.”

He stares at me. I stare at him. For a glorious moment, it seems that time has stood still.

But it hasn’t, and with each passing moment, those sirens get louder.

“Quite the pickle you’re in,” I note. “You think the cops will take the death penalty off the table if you tell them about Operation Delano?”

And then something happens. Kutuzov touches the earpiece in his left ear and shouts, “Nyet!” as the goon by the reflecting pool breaks into a full sprint to the south. A number of other people on the National Mall—the rest of the Russian team—scatter in various directions. Somebody, somewhere, is ordering the team to disperse.

Kutuzov, in full panic now, waves his pistol around and unleashes a flurry of appeals in Russian. I assume he’s telling his team that I’m lying, that I’m bluffing. And he would be correct. The DC cops aren’t working with me. They didn’t record anything. The only reason they’re speeding toward us is an anonymous call that Detective Liz Larkin just received from an untraceable phone used by a crusty Irishman and former Chicago cop informing her that wanted fugitive Benjamin Casper could be found at the Lincoln Memorial. They’re coming here to arrest me.

But Kutuzov doesn’t know that. And neither does his team. They have to make a decision and make it fast, because those sirens are getting louder.

“I will kill him!” Kutuzov shouts toward the Mall, and I assume he means me, but before he can turn in my direction, another crisp sound pierces the air, another thwip. The back of Kutuzov’s head explodes and his eye vomits blood. His knees buckle and his body rocks back and forth before he falls, face-first, down the stairs of the Lincoln Memorial, bouncing two or three steps before coming to a rest.

The sirens are upon us now, the sounds of the police vehicles crunching over the grass. I squat down next to Alex Kutuzov’s lifeless body.

“That’s for Ellis Burk,” I say to him. Then I turn and run.





Chapter 105



I run with every ounce of my remaining strength to the south, where I find my Triumph parked on Independence Avenue. I can hear the police behind me, but I don’t know what they’re doing. They’ve found a man bleeding out on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and, for all they know, it’s the guy they were coming to arrest—me. I hope that will make them pause for at least a minute or two.

I’ll take any delay I can get. I hop on the Triumph, look to my left, and see uniformed officers pointing at me and shouting. The police vehicles won’t be far behind. I kick the Triumph to life and bolt onto Independence heading east, navigating between cars under the blanket of the overhanging trees, the joggers and walkers to the north and south paying me little attention on a beautiful summer afternoon. I’d love to check my watch for the time, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. I tried to time things out as best I could, but if I didn’t, it’s too late to fix it now.