Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [113]
The sound of an approaching aircraft using the river as its guide to the airport named after Ronald Reagan caught his attention, the deafening whine of its engines growing louder. He looked left and right. They were virtually alone. He slowly removed the knife from his jacket and fingered the button. The blade snapped into place. The plane was directly in front of them now. Perfect! He turned toward Brixton and was prepared to thrust the knife into his neck when a chorus of squeaky children’s voices erupted. Silva and Brixton turned to see a visiting class of youngsters pour through the doors to the terrace. Simultaneously, the skies opened and rain came down hard.
Brixton said, “See ya.” He sprinted painfully to the doors and joined the kids and their teachers as they scrambled inside. He looked back to see Silva still standing at the railing. Must enjoy the rain, he thought as he headed back down the Hall of Nations, through the doors at the opposite end of the center, and climbed into the backseat of a waiting cab. “The Hotel Rouge,” he told the driver.
CHAPTER 41
Silva cursed his soggy clothing as he walked down the Hall of States and went to where he’d parked his car. His sneakers squished as he proceeded down the long promenade, and water dripped from his hair onto his nose and mustache. He didn’t need this on his final assignment, didn’t appreciate the mob of squealing, smelly kids and their teachers dashing this perfect opportunity.
He assumed that Brixton had returned to his hotel and further assumed that he would stay there for a while. He drove home, took a hot shower, and changed clothes. The aborted attempt at the Kennedy Center had soured him on the assignment. What had happened there could be considered an omen, he mused as he sat by the window in his study, watching the rain come down. Maybe he should scrap the hit, tell Dexter that he was quitting. The extra fee for this assassination would be nice but he didn’t need it. He had enough stashed away in the Caribbean to support a nice lifestyle there for the rest of his days.
But now that he’d seen his prey up close, had actually spoken with him twice, Brixton’s face continued to run before Silva’s mind’s eye on an endless loop, taunting him, creating a challenge. He was deep into this thinking when the phone rang.
“Hello, Emile,” his mother said in her weak, singsong voice.
“Ma-ma?”
“You haven’t come to see me.”
“I—where are you?”
“I’m home, Emile. They brought me home.”
“That’s good.”
She now whispered. “I don’t like the woman who’s here, Emile. She’s not trustworthy.”
“Who—?”
“Please come as soon as you can, Emile.”
She hung up.
He waited for his anger to subside before slipping into a fresh safari jacket, securing the switchblade in one pocket, his Bersa Thunder .380 handgun in the other, and going to the garage. He’d driven the third of his three cars that morning, a nondescript white Toyota Camry, preferring its relative automotive anonymity. But now as he prepared to go to the Hotel Rouge for another crack at Robert Brixton he chose the black Porsche Cayman. Driving it, he knew, would calm him down. It always did.
He was deep in thought as he drove down the sloping driveway and turned left in the direction of The District, so immersed in it that he failed to notice a blue SUV and its driver parked across the street. Nor did he see James Brockman pull away from the curb and fall in behind him.
• • •
Like Emile Silva, James C. Brockman had been in the military, the marines. He’d served in Iraq and Kuwait during the first Gulf War and had been injured there when he lost control of a truck he was driving and plowed into a command post, injuring two fellow marines. He was brought up on charges of negligence and dereliction of duty and given a choice: face a court-martial or accept a plea deal that would lower his rank from corporal to private and sever him from the corps with a general discharge.
At first, Brockman accepted the deal under the assumption that a general discharge was as good as an honorable