Whiplash

Kesselring moaned and opened his eyes to look up at Erin standing above him. She said, "You tried to blow me up. My Hummer's in the junkyard because of you." She kicked him in the knee.

He jerked and moaned again. He was panting as he said, "You are responsible for this, you interfering bitch, you're nothing more than a stupid girl."

"Yeah, right," Erin said. "What does that make you, Prince Charming?"

Kesselring was panting with the pain now. "I need a doctor, now."

Erin smiled down at him. "You didn't answer my question, Andy."

He said with pain-dulled eyes. "I'm a man, a man."

Sherlock went down on her knees next to him. "Look at me, Andy."

"Damn you, don't call me that!"

"Okay, Andreas," she said, her voice soothing, gentle. "Look, I know you're in terrible pain, but you've got to understand, you're headed for death row unless you cooperate. Tell me who's paying you."

He tried to spit in her face.

"There's an answer," Sherlock said.

Kesselring looked up at the two people who'd beaten him. He had failed. Through his roiling, unspeakable pain, his hatred of himself was nearly as great as his hatred of these American FBI agents. Odd how failure tasted sour in his mouth, how it made him want to vomit.

He suddenly saw himself as a little boy, his grandmother bending over him, bundling him up in the middle of winter so he could go build snow forts in the backyard. She was telling him over and over not to hurt his sister.

The pain was coming so hard and fast now it was hard to think, hard to even know what was happening to him. No matter what he said, no matter what he did, Kesselring knew there would be no deal that would ever allow him to walk free again.

He said to the faces above him, all of them blurred now into the haze where the god-awful pain pounded all the way to his soul, "My grandmother is in a nursing home outside of Frankfurt."

He saw his grandmother wrap two coats around his little sister Lisle so she could go outside and play with him. He was so excited, so impatient, and he really didn't want to play with her, she was too little, and she always tripped over everything, and whined-she still whined too much now and she was twenty-eight years old. "I'll never tell you anything," he said, and closed his eyes.

62

Sherlock stood aside to watch the paramedics, two young men with grim faces, work on Kesselring. "Good grief, Agent, you shot him up pretty good. Neck wound too? How did that happen?" He craned to look up at Sherlock.

"It was quite a shoot-out, let me tell you, I'm very happy he lost."

"He lost, all right," the other paramedic said as he passed pressure dressings to his partner and untied the straps on the gurney. "I think he's going to pull through but he ain't going to be happy for a good long time."

Dolores walked over and took Sherlock's hands in hers. "We're all so relieved you're all right. I've never seen this much shooting in my entire career. It's going to take the forensic team days just to find all the casings. But you're all right," she repeated, and ran her hands over Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock grinned at her, then reached for her SIG. She slipped in a new magazine. "Thanks, Dolores. Thank God, it's over." She nodded, then turned to make a call.

He answered on the first ring. "All I want to hear is that you're all right."

Sherlock kept her voice calm and clear. "Everything's okay here. Kesselring's alive, bound for the hospital. Bowie and I both shot him. Kesselring murdered Blauvelt-and he and Jane Ann plotted to murder Caskie. I've got lots to tell you about that. We've got Jane Ann in custody too, but Mick Haggarty is dead. If we're lucky, Kesselring or Jane Ann, if she knows, will roll big-time on whoever he was working for."

Savich felt his heart finally slowing. "You swear you're okay?"

"Yes, I promise. Tell me what's happening down there."

"What I really need to do is speak to Senator Hoffman, so how about I fly up to Connecticut later this evening?"

She said slowly, "You know, don't you, Dillon? You know the answer?"

"Yes, I do." He took a deep breath. "Excuse me now, sweetheart, I'm going to offer thanksgiving prayers before I do anything else."

63

Saturday evening

Savich met Senator David Hoffman in his elegant library in Chevy Chase.

He shook Savich's hand and said without preamble, "Tell me you've found out who's behind the attempted murder of Vice President Valenti. And don't tell me it was a terrorist."

Savich said, "No, I don't believe it was a terrorist."

"But you agree it's the same person or people who are trying to kill me who also murdered Dana Frobisher and sabotaged my car?"

"Yes, there's no doubt about that now."

"I see. Then you believe there is some-what, some madman after me, Agent Savich? And that I've been damned lucky he's missed me twice?" As he spoke, Senator Hoffman walked over and sat behind his mahogany desk. He motioned Savich to sit in front of him. The desk, Savich thought, suited the man.

"Yes, that is certainly how it appears."