Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense (9 page)

“Listen, get yourself cleaned up and get in here. I need that brief on Denver by noon. Gonna float it to a couple of friendlies this afternoon.”

“Jackson?” Jonas asked.

“Yeah, him. And Montgomery.”

Jonas stifled a yawn. “You’re hoping they’ll pull in Wyatt, aren’t you?”

A heavy exhale. “Need support from the right on this one.”

“It’s not a bill. There’s no vote.”

“Need all sides on board, Jonas, you know that. If the Israelis or the Palestinians smell uncertainty, they’ll walk away from Denver with nothing. And the President will look stupid. Now get your ass in here.”

“
Oui, mon capitain
.”

“And cut the French.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jonas closed the phone and almost cracked a smile. Work was just what he needed.

The cell rang again. This time Jonas looked at the caller ID, expecting to see the Senator’s office number.

Private

It gave him pause. “Osbourne.”

“Wow, you sound like shit. Rough night?”

The woman’s voice was unmistakable. It wasn’t just the pitch. It was also the soft, smooth cadence, the kind that could hypnotize. Or lure ships toward jagged rocks.

Anne.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “It’s making me lose sleep.”

“Yeah, I have that effect on people.”

“How did you get my cell-phone number?”

“Remember who I work for?”

“Oh, yeah. Stupid question. What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you,” she said

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“I want to interview you. Formally.”

“Formally?”

“Yes.”

“About what?”

“About Michael Calloway’s murder.” Jonas hesitated.

“I figured that’s what you were working on. You think I had something to do with it?”

“If I did, you wouldn’t have gotten a call from me. You would have received a visit from much stronger and more unseemly people.”

“So, what do you think I know?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think you have any clue. But I think

I can coax it out of you.”

Jonas looked at his pillow longingly. “What did you have in mind?”

“Hypnosis.”

“There are easier ways to get me into bed,” he said. “Like asking.”

He heard her exhale in frustration. “Look, Jonas, I’m just asking for a little bit of your time and cooperation. It’s...it’s hard to explain, but I can feel relationships between things.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I’m good enough at what I do to know when I get a strong sense about something and when I’m just bullshitting myself. I went to that funeral hoping the killer would turn up. If that happened, I think I would’ve known for sure who he was. He didn’t show up, but
you
did.”

“But
I’m
not the killer.”

“I know that, Jonas. But I still got some kind of sense from you that day, a trace of something. Think of a bloodhound given a piece of clothing to smell before he’s unleashed to find a victim. I can sense traces of
connection
, and the sense was stronger the second we shook hands. I can’t tell you what that sense means, but I haven’t gotten it from anyone else on this case.”

Jonas didn’t quite know how to respond.

“I realize what I do is unorthodox to you,” Anne continued. “But just ask around the Capitol about me. You’ll find out my reputation is solid. I think you can help me, and I’m hoping you will.” She told him her phone number. “Call me, okay? I don’t have a lot of time to burn on this one.”

Anne hung up before Jonas could say another word. He stared at the phone as if it would give him advice. It didn’t.

But it did ring again. Three times in as many minutes wasn’t unheard of, but it wasn’t how he wanted to start the morning. He looked at the screen.

Private.

Anne again, Jonas thought. Maybe she felt like she hadn’t sold herself enough and needed to give Jonas some references to call.

“What now?” Jonas asked.

But the voice wasn’t Anne’s, and it wasn’t even female. It was vaguely familiar, like the wispy memory of a decades-old nightmare, one without detail but still with an intangible sting of fear. The caller only spoke one word before hanging up.

“Hooah.”

A COOL
breeze swept around Jonas’s legs as he climbed the southwest steps of the Russell Senate Office Building. He looked up and saw the building’s American flag whipping in the wind, its red and white stripes shimmering against a brilliant blue morning sky. Springtime in Washington, his favorite season. The misery of the frozen months was just distant enough behind him, and the misery of the sweltering summer was just far enough ahead. He pushed open the entrance door and felt the building’s staleness replace the fresher air just feet away.

“Morning, Mr. Osbourne.”

Jonas nodded at the security guard. “What’s happening, Roger?”

The man shrugged. “Nothing exciting.”

“Then you’re doing your job.”

“Yessir.”

Jonas pulled out his cell phone and put it in the white plastic tray, checking for any new calls before doing so. The earlier phone call had given him a jolt. He’d received strange phone calls before—even threatening ones—but those were always on his office line. Not many people had his cell number, but this morning two new people had called him on it. Anne, and whoever had said
Hooah
.

Hooah. It was the Army battle cry. It pretty much meant anything except “no.” Jonas hadn’t used the term in years.

Why someone would call him and simply say one word before hanging up was unknown to him. The voice had been monotone and threatening at the same time.

Most of the threatening calls were about Denver. Senator Sidams was to be a major player at the Denver Peace Accords, and even the most fragile of agreements would cap the already distinguished career of the Senator and Chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee. Could even be a springboard to a presidential run in seven years. But Sidams’s angle for the Accords was controversial, as were all things concerning a truce in the Middle East.

Truce, not peace.

Hatred was a learned thing, and elders in that region of the world would be teaching it to their children for endless generations to come. There would never be peace. Just fleeting moments of quiet while everyone reloaded.

Hooah.

Jonas passed through the marble rotunda and saw an Army Staff Sergeant walking with brisk purpose toward the elevator. The man’s posture was extreme enough to seem robotic, and Jonas could see discipline and strength chiseled into his face. In that moment, as in many of his moments, Jonas missed the Army. He missed the camaraderie. The discipline. Even the fear. At least he was in as good as shape now as he ever was thanks to a fierce regimen of boxing and mixed martial arts. He sparred frequently, fought occasionally, and rarely found himself on the losing side of a decision. Once a Ranger, always a Ranger.

He pushed his shoulders back and walked a bit taller as he jogged up the stairs to office 301. He never took the elevator.

Jonas could feel the energy behind the door before he walked into the Senator’s offices. It was often like this, the kinetic pulse of politics. Once inside that office, there would be little time to relax. There were the endless meetings. There were the agendas to follow, then change, then abandon completely out of futility. There were the requests to see the Senator, the requests from the Senator to see others, and the requests from both sides to cancel for fear of actually seeing each other. There were the promises and the lies, often mixed together into a smooth cocktail of delusion and hope. And, once in awhile, if the country inched forward into the right direction, there was the satisfaction.

Those days were rare.

He opened the door and felt the energy wash over him, sweep him up, and beg him to get on the raft before the big rapids came up.

V whisked by and Jonas caught the soft wind of her perfume. She smelled like the right kind of morning.

“You look like shit,” she said, walking by, a coy smile on her face.

“Thanks. That’s what I was going for. Hang on a sec, V.” She turned and smiled. “Yes, boss?”

“You know anyone at the FBI?”

“I had a brief fling with a Special Agent last year. Verdict? Not so special.”

“You still in touch with him?”

“Did I say it was a ‘him’?”

The comment stopped Jonas for only a beat. “That’s hot.”

“Pig.”

“Listen, get a hold of
her
, or anyone of a decent rank over there. They use a contractor named Anne Deneuve. She’s a medium.”

V pulled a notepad out of nowhere and began writing. “Medium what?”

“Like a psychic. Psychic criminologist, I think it’s called.”

“The FBI uses psychics? I thought that was only on TV.” Jonas ignored the comment. “I need to know if she’s legit.”

“A legit psychic?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you think—”

“Just do it, please. Okay? She wants to meet with me and

I’m trying to decide if I should take the time to do it.”

V spun and kept walking. “Maybe you should just ask the psychic,” she quipped.

Jonas headed toward his office, knowing V would have good feedback within the hour. That’s what he loved about the people he worked with. Despite all the different personalities and attitudes, everyone did their work to the best of their ability. Senator Sidams had been in the Senate for over twenty years and he did not believe in rewarding mediocrity. Jonas had seen him fire longtime friends and bring on board political rivals. No one who worked for the Senator took his or her job for granted, not even Jonas, who, as Chief of Staff, would be the hardest to replace.

The Senator paged him the second Jonas’s ass touched his chair. Jonas made a beeline for Sidams’s office.

Robert Sidams looked up from his desk, which was a massive chunk of cherry built around the time Edison was first toying with filaments. The Senator’s white hair was fully intact, despite the stress of two decades in Washington. His lean, clean-shaven face showed the hint of a tan and a scowl, making him look like a Midwest rancher reluctantly dressed up and shipped to D.C. Behind him was a wall of photos, most of the Senator shaking hands with heads of state from both friendly and belligerent nations. Sidams wore the same smile in every photo. It wasn’t fake, but it certainly didn’t tell you the cards he was holding.

“You look like shit,” he said to Jonas. “So I’ve heard.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“I’m trying to reconcile familial issues and my obsessive need for constant approval.”

“Seriously, Jonas. I need to know you are at a level of high functionality.”

Jonas shifted his gaze to the carpet for a second. “My head is still a bit out of whack from the accident. And I...”

I’m remembering things from the service. Things I had completely blocked out. Now I want to know more.

“You what?”

“I’m fine. Ready to roll.”

Sidams assessed Jonas with eyes that had once stared down Kim Jong Il.

“Fair enough. I need to see the Denver brief.”

“Can you give me an hour?”

“Will it be in better shape than it is now?”

“Infinitely.”

“Fine. Have it by then. Make sure to check the wire for anything current. I don’t want to find out Hamas has done something stupid in the last few hours that will screw everything up.”

“Define ‘stupid’.”

“Like kidnap more tourists.”

When Hamas kidnapped a busload of Israeli tourists who were on their way to a weekend of fun in Eilat the previous year, it represented a major shift in tactics for the Palestinian organization. The abduction was done on Israeli soil, not within the Territories. The tourists were blindfolded and whisked away in secret to Gaza, where they were held for six days. Though Israel launched a few rockets in retaliation, no one knew where the hostages were, so open attacks were dangerous. On the sixth day, the hostages were driven back to the open highway and released, unharmed.

Hamas didn’t want to hurt them. Hamas just wanted to show Israel they
could
have.

The brazen act increased already elevated tensions in the region. Sidams had just proposed his bill at the time and the kidnapping had almost torpedoed it. The Denver Peace Accords were just months away. The President would be there, but Sidams was going to be involved in every meeting. Every conversation. Every handshake. Which meant Jonas would be there as well. It could be a monumental moment in history or just another failure in a long succession of fizzled peace attempts.

“I’ll check,” Jonas said to the Senator. Jonas remained standing in front of Sidams’s desk.