been an honest, hardworking citizen these last twenty years. Frank
wondered what had changed that.
“is there anything you can remember or think of that might help me,
Wanda?” Frank tried to look as innocent as possible, opening his
notebook and pretending to jot down some notes. If she were the inside
person, the one thing he didn’t want was Wanda. running back to Rogers,
which would result in his going even further underground. On the other
hand, if he could get her to crumble, then she just might jump sides. .
He envisioned her dusting the entrance hall. It would have been so easy,
so easy to apply that chemical to the cloth, then casually brush it
against the securit panel. It would all look I Y so natural, no one,
even staring directly at her while she did it, would have given it a
thought. Just a conscientious servant doing her job. Then sneaking down
when everyone was asleep, a quick sweep of the light and her part was
done.
Technically, she would probably be an accomplice to murder, since
homicide was a reasonably likely result when you burglarized someone’s
home. But Frank was far less interested in sending Wanda Broome away for
a large portion of the rest of her life than he was in bagging the
trigger man.
The woman sitting across from him had not concocted this plan, he
believed. She had played a role, a small, albeit important role. Frank
wanted the master of ceremonies. He would get the Commonwealth’s
Attorney to cut a deal with Wanda to accomplish that goal.
“Wanda?” Frank leaned across the table and earnestly took one of her
hands. “Can you think of anything else? Anything that will help me
catch the person who murdered your friend?”
Frank finally received a small shake of the head in return and he leaned
back. He hadn’t expected much on this goround, but he had made his
point. The wall was beginning to crumble. She wouldn’t warn the guy,
Frank was certain of that. He was aetting to Wanda Broome, little by
little.
As he would discover, he had already gone too far.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ACK THREW HIS CARRY-ON INTO THE CORNER, TOSSED HIS overcoat on the sofa
and fought the impulse to pass out right there on the carpet. Ukraine
and back in five days had been a killer. The seven-hour time difference
had been bad enough, but for someone closing in on octogenarian status,
Walter Sullivan had been indefatigable.
They had been whisked through the security checkpoints with the alacrity
and respect Sullivan’s wealth and reputation commanded. From that point
forward a series of endless meetings had commenced. They toured
manufacturing facilities, mining operations, office buildings, hospitals
and then had been taken to dinner and gotten drunk with the Mayor of
Kiev. The President of Ukraine had received them on the second day, and
Sullivan had him eating out of his hand within the hour. Capitalism and
entrepreneurship were respected above all else in the liberated republic
and Sullivan was a capitalist with a capital C Everyone wanted to talk
to him, shake his hand, as if some of his moneymaking magic would rub
off on them, producing untold wealth in a very short time.
The result had been more than they could have hoped for as the
Ukrainians fell in line on the business deal with glowing, praise for
its vision. The pitch for dollars for nukes would come later at the
appropriate time. Such an asset. An unnecessary asset that could be
turned into liquidity.
Sullivan’s retrofitted 747 had flown nonstop from Kiev to BWI and his
limo had just dropped Jack off. He made his way into the kitchen. The
only thing in the fridge was soured milk. The Ukrainian food had been
good but was heavy, and after the first couple of days he only picked at
his meals. And there had been way too much booze. Apparently business
could not be conducted without it.
He rubbed his head, tussling with sleep deprivation of massive
proportion. In fact he was too tired to sleep. But he was hungry. He
checked his watch. His internal clock said it was almost eight A.m.