by Jeff Gunhus
CHAPTER 11
Four years ago
Scott slugged back the last of his Sam Adams and motioned the bartender for two more. Hawthorn waved the order off. “It’s all right, Jose,” Hawthorn said. “We’re good.”
Jose the bartender looked back at Scott. “Sorry, Dad said no.”
Hawthorn snorted. “Dad, hell. If I were your dad, you could bet your ass you’d have already been out to the woodshed for this last thing.”
Scott tipped his mug back again, getting the last drops from it. “Instead I get drinks at Old Ebbitt Grill. I’m sure glad you’re not my dad.”
Hawthorn turned serious. “What the hell were you thinking? Right here? In DC?”
“Well, technically it was in Georgetown.”
“Don’t get cute with me. I’m not in the mood.”
Scott glanced around the bar. He’d surveyed the place already, but it was habit. He knew Hawthorn had his own people posted around the room, and they were easy to pick out. He wondered again why they were having this conversation here as opposed to Hawthorn’s office.
“I saw an opportunity to bring in Al-Saib. I had to take it.”
“No, Scott. You saw an opportunity to bring in Al-Saib, and then you went and screwed it all up. You should have come to me. We could have done it right.”
Scott crunched an ice cube in his mouth. “You know the problem with that.”
“Again with this thing. I’ve checked my shop out every way possible over the last three months. We don’t have a mole. Not one I can find anyway.”
“That’s not what Al-Saib said.”
Hawthorn hadn’t been in on his debrief after the incident in Georgetown, but Scott knew he’d watched the recording of it. This was information he hadn’t shared with the goon squad and Hawthorn knew it. Scott wanted to do this part in person because he wanted to see the reaction for himself. Hawthorn was an old pro, so if there was anything, it would be no more than a microexpression. A twitch. An eye movement.
“Al-Saib said he had someone inside?” Hawthorn said. Scott watched his friend carefully. “He implied it.”
“Christ, Scott. This is why we needed to bring him in.”
“Right after he told me, he lost his balance and fell.”
“A lot of folks think he had a little help falling off that building.”
“What do you think?”
Hawthorn grinned. “I think the only thing you would have liked better than seeing him splat would have been to see him locked up and interrogated for the next ten years. If he lost his balance, it was for a good reason.”
Scott grabbed Hawthorn’s beer and took a swig. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Hawthorn grabbed his beer back. “Did he give you a name?”
“Yeah, he did.”
Hawthorn glanced at the nearest one of his guys in the room, as if measuring whether he was within earshot or not. “Who?”
“You, James. He said it went all the way up to you. And higher.”
Hawthorn locked eyes with Scott for a beat, then burst out laughing. “And that’s what you want to tell the president? You want to drink these beers and go into the Oval and tell the guy that some terrorist said both he and his director of Intelligence are in cahoots with the bad guys?”
“I know you’re not part of it. Hell, if you were, you’re responsible for helping me kill half their roster of hitters.”
“Wouldn’t make me very popular at the bad-guy Christmas party,” Hawthorn agreed.
“And I wasn’t planning on using the word cahoots,” Scott said.
“Well, that puts my mind at ease. Thank you very much.”
“The point is that there’s something big going on. Al-Saib wasn’t an ideologue. At the heart of it, he was a professional. But something had him spooked. Enough to make these wild claims. Enough to commit suicide to evade capture and interrogation.”
“And you think you’re the one to put a team together to go hunt this down?”
“You’re damn right I am.”
“After you just engaged in a running shootout on the roof of the most expensive hotel in the city, left a dead body in the middle of the street, and leveraged your wife’s position to involve the government of Sweden in your exploits. The Swedes are pissed off at her and at us.”
Scott winced. He’d already paid that bill, sleeping on the couch for a week even though he’d been recovering from the gunshot. Then the Swedish government had quietly asked her to make other arrangements, no longer comfortable with housing a CIA operative as part of their diplomatic team. That’d earned him a second week on the couch. “Al-Saib planned the coffeehouse bombing in Stockholm last year. They wanted him dead.”
“Yeah, but they just wanted us to take care of it. You know how they are; they hate getting their hands dirty.”
“Why are you bringing all this up?”
“Because the president will.” Hawthorn checked his watch, then pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and left it on the bar. “We should be going. Always a negative to keep the president waiting in the Oval.”
“Really? We’re going right now?” Scott said.
“Why did you think I didn’t want to have that second beer? It’d be nice if you called him sir, Mr. President, that sort of thing.”
“So, no calling him jackass?”
“Maybe we should have had that second beer.”
* * *
They walked through the dark wood and brass interior of Old Ebbitt Grill out into the street facing the Treasury Building. Hawthorn’s car pulled up, but he ignored it.
“What do you say we stretch our legs. We have time,” Hawthorn said, obviously not asking it as a question.
They turned left down Eighteenth Street and walked parallel to Treasury toward the mall, where the Washington Monument loomed up in front of them. They didn’t say much, content to walk in silence. Scott processed the idea of meeting the president in the Oval. He’d met Townsend’s predecessor, President Simmons, but that had been in a private ceremony out at Langley when the man had hung a medal around Scott’s neck. The difference was that Simmons was an honorable man who Scott respected. Townsend was a different matter. It wasn’t just the man’s policies that rubbed Scott the wrong way, he could live with that. It was the man’s character that bothered him. He was a narcissist who made everything about him. He demanded loyalty from the people around him, but showed none in return, publically embarrassing even his allies if it could make him look better.
He didn’t understand how Hawthorn had not only tolerated the man, but helped him along the way. Being college buddies with the man’s father was good for a few beers and maybe a weekend golf trip to reminisce. Endorsing a run for the president of the United States was another thing altogether. He could only assume that there was a good man buried beneath the hubris, a man Hawthorn had seen there over the years and thought he could find again.
Then again, maybe Hawthorn was human and just liked the access to power that came with backing the winning horse in the most important race on the globe. He liked to think Hawthorn was a better man than that, but Scott understood the draw of power on a man’s soul. Still, he held out hope that his friend was a moderating influence on the president’s temperament. If Townsend had to be in the White House, Scott was happy Hawthorn was on the inside to help guide him.
They crossed Eighteenth Street at the W Hotel and walked through the park bearing the statue of William Tecumseh Sherman astride his horse. “Funny how we honor a man like Sherman so close to the White House,” Scott said.
“He got the job done,” Hawthorn said. “His taking Atlanta probably ensured Lincoln won a second term. Without that there might be a border crossing just south of here into the Confederate States of America.”
“His scorched earth campaign burned down towns, killed livestock, laid waste to the South. They still spit on the ground down there when you mention his name.”
“They were disloyal,” Hawthorn said. “The
price for that is high.”
Scott stopped. Hawthorn took a few more steps, but then he slowed and turned, facing him. “Is that why we came this way?” Scott asked. “Just so you could let out that little line?”
“You’re overthinking.” It was clear from the expression on his face that Scott had it right.
“You’ve always shot me straight. This is the first time I can think of where you’ve tried to handle me. What’s going on, Jim? How bad is it?”
The muscles in Hawthorn’s jaws twitched and he clenched his teeth. Scott noticed, but he was in work mode now, and he knew Hawthorn could have done that just so he would notice. The trap inside a trap inside a trap.
“I want you to meet the president and then I’ll answer that afterward.”
Scott closed the space between them until they were toe-to-toe. He had Hawthorn by four inches, but the older man wasn’t intimidated. Not in the slightest. “I’d prefer you tell me now. If I’m walking into a buzz saw, I want to know about it ahead of time.”
Hawthorn held out a hand to the men in his protective detail striding toward them once Scott had moved into his personal space. They stopped, but clearly didn’t like what was going on. “What in God’s green earth makes you think I give a shit what you’d prefer?” Hawthorn said. “Now, snap to or I’ll break you over my knee and send you crawling back to the Farm to teach raw recruits how to wipe their asses. You got that?”
Hawthorn turned on his heel and walked toward the White House gate. Whatever pleasant buzz Scott had from the beer at Old Ebbitt was long gone. Every once in a while, it was easy to forget the career James Hawthorn had before becoming a political animal foraging in the Washington jungle. A decorated Marine, then CIA field operative before being promoted up the chain of command, Hawthorn wasn’t some limp dick political appointee. As evidenced by the way the man had just made him feel like a teenager being scolded by his dad. He followed Hawthorn up to the gate and showed the guards his credentials. After they were waved through, they headed across the South Lawn toward the West Wing. When they reached the Rose Garden, Scott finally broke the silence.
“And I thought you’d gotten too old to be such a giant prick,” he said. “Is it the Viagra?”
Hawthorn let out a loud laugh, flashing Scott a grin that put them back on firm ground again. “Just behave yourself in there, all right?”
“I respect the office,” Scott said. “No matter who the son of a bitch is who’s sitting behind the desk.”
“Even this son of a bitch?” came a voice from ahead of them. Both men looked up at the colonnade that marked the walkway from the West Wing to the Main Residence. There stood a man smoking a cigarette. He looked older than he did on TV. Scott swallowed hard.
“Hello, Mr. President,” he said.
Townsend took a long drag from his cigarette, then tossed the butt down and ground it out. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
The president turned and walked toward a double set of French doors. A Secret Service agent opened the door as he approached. Scott took notice that the president didn’t even acknowledge the agent as he passed.
“We’re off to a good start,” Hawthorn said before walking up the steps to the colonnade.
Scott followed, but as he ascended the stairs, he bent down and picked up the cigarette butt on the ground. He deposited it in a brass receptacle discreetly hidden behind a bush, a foot away from where Townsend had been standing. Just one more reason not to like the guy.
“Thanks,” he said to the agent holding open the door. Then he walked into the Oval Office and the worst meeting of his life.
CHAPTER 12
Mara watched the ex-president of the United States slowly regain consciousness, his eyes fluttering open and then squinting in the lights of the storage room. It was a cramped space, most of it taken up by wire shelving units that stood empty because they were in the new construction area of the building. The covers for the LED bulbs in the ceiling were not installed yet, so everything was bathed in stark, harsh light. As Townsend slowly cleared his head, she wondered what must be going through his mind. Probably not a lot of good thoughts about his Secret Service detail.
Mara still couldn’t believe how simple it’d been to pull Townsend from the elevator.
It almost made her feel sorry for the Secret Service agents. A month from now she figured they’d find themselves assigned to the most remote outposts the Service had, probably chasing counterfeiters in border towns in Texas or something. Certainly none of them would protect a president again.
“C’mon, Preston, wake up,” Scott said, kneeling in front of the man. He rifled through his pockets, pulling out a thin wallet and a silver cigarette case, handing both over to Mara. Scott slapped his cheeks lightly. “Haven’t got all day.”
Townsend coughed, hacking up some phlegm and spitting it on the floor. He blinked hard and then settled in on Scott’s face. “Roberts. You’re supposed to be dead.”
“That’s the rumor.” Scott put the palm of his hand on Townsend’s forehead and stared at him. “Are you all there? Do you know what’s happening?”
Townsend swatted his hand away. “Don’t touch me. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Scott looked satisfied. “Something I’ve waited to do for four years.”
Without warning, he delivered a brutal right cross to the man’s face. Townsend’s head popped backward, his hands covering his nose. Within seconds, blood gushed from between his fingers and he howled like a wounded dog.
Mara pulled her gun and pointed it at Scott.
“This wasn’t part of the plan,” she said. “You said we’re here to ask him questions. We wouldn’t hurt him.”
“I’m gonna have you killed for this,” Townsend said. “Both of you.”
Mara turned the gun on Townsend. “You shut up.”
“He had it coming,” Scott said. “More than you know.”
“Ask him your questions,” she said. “You know they’re tearing the building apart looking for him right now.”
Scott edged closer to Townsend. “She’s right. We don’t have much time. But you can see I don’t give a shit about hurting you or not. My government trained me to get answers out of people as efficiently as possible. I hope you don’t cooperate, because I’d love to show you what Uncle Sam taught me.”
“You don’t scare me,” Townsend said, his shaking voice telling a different story. “You can go fuck yourself.” His eyes lit up as if he’d just figured something out. “My God, this is about the book, isn’t it? I knew they might come after me, but this? You know what? You can tell whoever hired you that they can go fuck themselves, too.”
Scott clamped his hand over Townsend’s mouth. He knelt down so that they were face-to-face. “I don’t want to hear another word from you unless it’s a direct answer to a question I ask you. Understand?”
Townsend’s wide eyes were answer enough. Scott removed his hand.
“First question, who gave the kill order on my wife?”
Townsend looked confused, but then his shoulders relaxed and he let out a snorting laugh. “That’s what this is all about? Your wife?”
Mara felt a chill wash over her. She didn’t know that what happened to her mom was even on the table. The questions made no sense. Her dad had killed her.
“Answer me,” Scott shouted.
Townsend looked away. The fear was gone now. His usual dismissive, smug attitude was back in force. “I don’t know anything about that. You need to talk to—”
Scott grabbed the president’s pinkie finger and snapped it at the middle joint like it was a pencil. In the same motion, he covered Townsend’s mouth with his hand, muffling the man’s scream.
Mara flinched at the suddenness of the violence. As much as she wanted an answer to the question, her gun was still at her side. Her dad looked out of control, and she’s wasn’t sure whether it was an act to scare Townsend into talking. She was starting to suspect it wasn’t.
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“This is entry-level pain,” Scott snarled. “Next time I ask a question and you don’t cooperate, I’m skipping the intermediate stuff and going right for the permanent disfigurement. You’ll give your next speech without a nose. Got it?”
Townsend nodded.
“Good.” Scott removed his hand. “Now, who gave the kill order on my wife?”
“I gave the order to bring her in alive.”
Mara looked closer at Scott. All of the play was gone from him. He was deadly serious.
“Why did you want Wendy Roberts brought in?” Mara asked.
Townsend jerked his head toward her as if he’d forgotten she was there. His lips curled in contempt. “He hasn’t told you? He brought you all the way here to kill me and he didn’t even tell you the truth about why you’re here.”
“Kill you? No one is talking about . . .” She caught the look in her dad’s eye and she knew. Townsend was right. Her dad was there to kill the ex-president.
She raised her gun slowly and pointed it at him. “Are you crazy?”
Scott wouldn’t even look at her. His eyes were fixed on Townsend. “He killed Wendy,” he said. “Same as if he pulled the trigger himself.”
No, you killed her, Mara thought, but that fundamental truth, that fact that had consumed her waking hours for four years, now suddenly seemed shaded gray. Why would her dad be asking these questions unless he really didn’t know who’d killed her mom? But why would he have confessed to it? It made no sense.
“Admit it,” Scott raged at Townsend. “You gave the order.”
“Bullshit, I had nothing to do with that,” Townsend said. “I told you, I wanted her alive. You’re the one that went off the reservation.”
“She told me, before she died, that the U.S. government had a kill on sight order on her. That if I brought her in, she was as good as dead.”
Mara studied her dad’s face, searching for any sign he was lying. There was none. She leaned against the shelving unit next to her, light-headed. Trying to catch her breath.
“When did she tell you that?” Townsend snapped. “Right before you shot her?”
