The Curse of Medusa

“Where do we find this man?” the Frenchman repeated with steel-cold eyes.

“I already told you both — I never even met the guy…”

Vincent was losing patience, and glanced at his watch. “We’re running out of time, Secret Service man. You give me what I want to know right now or I just kill you comme ça.” He released the pressure on the cushion for a second to snap his fingers.

“I never even met him!”

“Okay,” Doyle said with resignation. “Kill him.”

Vincent nodded once and gripped the gun tight.

“All right — all right… listen. Maybe I can still help you guys out, just please, don’t kill me. Karen needs me, you know?”

“We want names and addresses, not bullshit.”

Novak sighed and stared at the ceiling. Blood poured down the sides of his face from his split lip and ran onto the table. He looked deflated and beaten. Vincent thought he was probably considering how a bullet would be preferable to life in a federal prison.

“I dealt with a couple of guys — one was an Australian — name was Pauling.”

“And what was his part in all this?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I think he was their technical guy. He asked me a lot of questions about computers and wanted the IP address of the President’s car.”

“And who did he work for?”

“An English guy. His name is Nick Collins, a real weasel of a guy.”

“And how does the weasel fit into all this?”

“He’s some kind of middleman with contacts in the arms industry.”

Vincent pushed the gun harder. “That’s all you’ve got, really?”

“All I know is he greases the wheels, you know? He’s the link between the arms suppliers and the guy running this crazy show.”

“You mean he supplied this loon with the weapons currently attacking this city?”

“He facilitated it, yeah.”

“You have a real way with words, Novak,” Doyle said in disgust. “I bet if you tried hard enough you could convince yourself you’ve got nothing to do with any of this.”

“I’m not proud of what I did.”

“Listen,” Vincent said. “You believe this Collins guy can tell us where we might locate the people behind this attack?”

Novak nodded reluctantly.

“Where can we find him?”

“It’s funny but you just missed him…”

Doyle moved closer. “You mean..?”

“He was the guy in the Viper?” Vincent asked.

“Sorry, but yeah.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know much about him. I only met him a couple times. He just came tonight to give me my tickets out of here.”

Doyle sighed. “We need more than that, Novak.”

“I know that he was spending some time in Brown’s on Capitol Hill.”

Vincent looked at Doyle for clarification.

“It’s an up-market cocktail lounge. A lot of the senators go there.” He turned to Novak. “What was he doing there?”

“He sang cabaret in a cocktail dress, Doyle, what do you think?”

Vincent pushed the muzzle of the gun into the cushion, hard. “Don’t get smart, mon ami. I move my finger a millimetre and your chest explodes.”

“Sorry… he used the place to meet senators and that’s all I know. That should get you started.”

“I don’t think so,” Doyle said. “Brown’s closed last week. Try harder.”

Novak squinted with the effort of thinking with a gun pushed into his chest. He knew better than many what a nine mil round could do at point blank, and right now there was one with his name on it in a chamber ten inches from his heart. “All right, you could try Ivy City.”

Vincent and Doyle shared an optimistic glance.

“What’s in Ivy City?” Doyle said.

“A warehouse. I went there once to meet him. He was testing some chopper drones there because he used to be a helicopter pilot for the British Army or something. You need to hurry because he just told me he was moving out.”

Vincent snarled. “Address, now.”

Kevin Novak knew the game was up, and gave the men the address of the warehouse.

Vincent put the gun in his belt and made a call on his cell phone. A few seconds later Joe Hawke was on the line.

“You find anything?”

“Oh yeah,” Vincent said. “Son of a bitch was packing his bags all ready to go on holiday. He has a ticket for Ecuador in his pocket.”

“What did he say?”

“He’s just the little guy, et cetera, et cetera…”

“Thought he might say that — but you charmed some information out of him, right?”

“Naturellement. There’s an arms dealer named Collins, an English guy like you, Hawke.”

“What are you trying to say, Frog?”

Vincent laughed. “Listen, this English guy has provided the fireworks for this party, and we have his address. He also told us about their tech guy, a man called Pauling who wanted to know all about the President’s car.”

“That explains how they pulled off the kidnapping.”

“Right… but he also said this Collins guy mentioned something about moving out so we need to get going if we’re going to catch him. According to Monsieur Novak this guy’s a little weasel who knows where we can find the men behind this attack. He has a warehouse full of goodies.”

“Where is this warehouse?”

“Ivy City.”

“We can be with you in a few minutes,” Hawke said and then paused. “Hang on just a second…”

“Joe, what is it?” Vincent said.