“And Zahir Damari?”
Callan watched the car disappear around the circular drive, then turned. “I wish I knew, Tony. How to find him? I don’t know if Spenser even knows what Zahir is up to or where he’s at. But I do know one thing for sure: Damari is the most dangerous individual on the planet.”
She laid her hand on his arm. “Let’s brief the president about Damari and about those bombs.”
67
KNIGHT TO E5
George Washington University Hospital
Matthew wasn’t stupid. He knew the TV report on Vanessa had been leaked on purpose. The whole place had to be crawling with Feds, he could practically feel them, waiting, guns ready.
But it didn’t matter. If she was alive, he wanted to finish the job, he had to finish it. She’d betrayed him, she didn’t deserve to live, and this time he would make sure her eyes were vacant and her heart didn’t beat. He laughed, thought maybe he’d burn down the freaking hospital while he was at it, give a final salute to Andy.
He’d found a good vantage point in the garage across from the back entrance to the hospital. He’d sat in the darkness, waiting for three hours now, getting a sense of the ebb and flow of the area.
Hospital staff parked here. The right person would come, sooner or later. He was patient, something he’d had to learn during his years with Ian.
Hospital employees walked in and out of the garage, wearing scrubs and clogs, some in white coats, carrying messenger bags and backpacks. A few biked to work, then changed their shoes. Some left, more came.
There was a shift change at six in the morning. Nurses began flooding the garage. He stepped from the car, into the meager sunrise, watched for someone his size and hair color. It didn’t take long.
There he was. He rode a bike; it was chained up twenty feet from where Matthew silently waited. He took off his white coat—a doctor, then, or an intern, not a nurse—folded it carefully, and put it in his messenger bag. Matthew waited for him to get on his bike and start down the ramp. He got back in the car and drove, careful not to be seen by the cameras, turning his head away at the right moments. The plates would be visible; no matter, he intended to ditch the car the moment he had the ID anyway.
The doctor took a right out of the garage, began pedaling down New Hampshire Avenue toward the Potomac. Matthew followed, slowly now, making sure he kept him in sight. A bike meant he lived close by.
Within minutes, they were at the entrance of the Watergate Apartments. The doctor stopped at the Watergate Café. Matthew followed him in, watched him standing in line. He got coffee and a roll, tucked in right there like he was starved.
When he came out of the café, a second coffee in his hand, he walked his bike toward the Watergate garage.
Matthew took him from behind, jerked him back into the bushes, slapping his hand over his mouth. It was risky since there were a couple of people not twenty feet away, but he found, oddly, that he didn’t care. It didn’t take him more than a moment to decide—he slipped his knife into the doctor’s heart, and the man dropped like a stone.
Matthew stripped him of his badge and the white jacket he’d stashed in his messenger bag, plus his wallet, in case they needed two forms of ID. His name was—had been—Aaron Tasker. He left him there in the bushes and didn’t look back. He realized he didn’t feel a thing. Not a single bit of fear or remorse, nothing. He was a man on a mission, and he knew he had to win this time. But what if he didn’t win? Focus, he thought, it’s time to focus.
Matthew took the bike and rode back to the hospital.