Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  “What do you think it means?” Beckwith finally asked, the first to venture to break the silence.

  Working the mass of food around in his mouth, Ridge waited until he could swallow before saying, “I think it means that my phone calls today are starting to make a few people sweat.”

  Without stating that that part was understood, Beckwith said, “Which begs the question, was he here as a representative of the army, or as an individual with something to lose that felt you were getting too close?”

  Not enough time had passed for Ridge to have gotten that far in his assessment, the surprise of Ames showing up unannounced, the anger at his condescending demeanor, both taking the top spot in his mind since the meeting ended. Pushing them each to the side, he focused on what Beckwith had asked, rolling it around.

  The surprise late night visit by a single general didn’t seem to be something that would spring from an official source. The military might be many, many things, but subtle certainly wasn’t one of them.

  If something he was doing had landed on their radar, was rankling feathers high up the chain of command, they would have been calling all afternoon, would have sent over every ranking official they could think of, filling his office with as much brass as possible and trying to instill the fear of God into him.

  What had happened instead made him think that this was much lower in prestige, perhaps even as far down as to be something that concerned only Ames and possibly a small handful of associated personal interests.

  Even at that, though, his showing up made little sense. Prior to twenty minutes before, Ridge had never heard of the man. For him to risk showing up, giving his name and face, especially if he was involved in something nefarious, moved well past bold into territory that was completely foolish.

  The fact that nothing Ridge had done thus far would seem to warrant such action only made it that much more bizarre.

  The thoughts still sat at the front of his mind, the senator trying to wrestle them into position, to determine the best way of articulating them, when beside him his personal cell phone began to vibrate, the buzzing causing the device to rotate slightly atop the desk.

  Glancing down to it, he saw the 907 area code staring up at him, the name Harold Golding flashing to the front of his mind.

  “You all keep eating. I’ll be back.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Casting a glance to the front door of the office, almost expecting it to swing open again, for Arnold Ames to appear a second time, Ridge stepped from his office into the adjoining bullpen. Walking into the far corner, he leaned his body against the front edge of the unoccupied desk and folded his arms across his chest, bringing the phone to his face.

  “Jackson Ridge.”

  The sound of the wind rushing outside was the first sound to find him again, just as it had been in their previous conversation, before the noise died away and the genial twang of Harold Golding came over the line.

  “Senator, Harold Golding calling you back from Alaska.”

  “Yeah, I can hear that,” Ridge replied.

  “Oh, sorry,” Golding muttered, falling silent for a moment as the background noise died away. “That better?”

  “Much,” Ridge replied. “Thanks for getting back to me.”

  “Sorry for ending the previous call so shortly, but after you asked about the counterintelligence angle, I needed to do some digging.”

  Feeling his grip on the phone tighten just slightly, Ridge pressed it a bit tighter to his face, saying nothing.

  “You were right,” Golding said, “generally on cases that warrant it, CID and counterintelligence do work together.”

  “But that didn’t happen here?” Ridge said, piecing together what he was being told.

  “No,” Golding said, “not because it wouldn’t necessarily call for it, but because they yanked me before the investigation ever had a chance to get that far.”

  Just as with their previous conversation, Ridge could hear some of the warmth fade from Golding’s voice, replaced instead by the bitterness that could only be felt by a man currently in the throes of an Alaskan winter.

  “And I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to this, but I’ll ask anyway-“

  “Damned peculiar,” Golding said, sensing what the senator was going to ask and beating him to it. “Which is why I made a phone call to a buddy of mine over at CI.”

  Outside, the sound of the office telephone springing to life could be heard, the noise especially pronounced in the late evening quiet. At the first ring, Ridge could feel a ripple pass through his system, a tiny unexpected jolt to the senses.

  Leveraging himself up from the side of the desk, he strode across the bullpen to the door and grasped the side of it, Beckwith appearing in the mirroring doorway, a napkin to her lips as she strode for the phone.

  Swinging the door closed behind him, Ridge walked back to his post in the corner, the smooth desktop a complete contrast to the other three around the room.

  “So they were brought in,” Ridge said.

  “That I don’t know,” Golding said. “My contact there wasn’t involved in it but was going to take a look around and see what he could uncover. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave him this number. He should be calling soon, whether he finds something or not.”

  “Thank you,” Ridge said, “I appreciate the help.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t do more, sir,” Golding replied.

  “Not at all, this has been a big aid,” Ridge said, “I promise you.”

  To that, there was a pause, a moment that seemed to trend a bit toward awkward, before Golding added, “Listen, senator, I know this is your last night and all, but if you do happen to unravel what happened over there...”

  “Of course,” Ridge said, “I’ll keep you posted every step of the way.”

  Again there was a pause before Golding said, “Well, I would appreciate it, but that’s actually not what I meant...”

  Letting his voice trail off, Ridge stabbed blindly for a moment, attempting to put together whatever Golding was hinting at, before things fell into place, his eyes snapping wide.

  “Oh! Yes, if I find anything that might be able to circle you back to the mainland, I’ll be sure to do everything I can to see it gets in the right hands.”

  At the door, a tiny knock sounded out, followed by the door opening just a few inches, the face of Susan Beckwith appearing.

  “Thank you, sir,” Golding said. “I’d appreciate it.”

  “Thank you,” Ridge replied, ending the call there by snapping the phone shut, turning his attention toward the door.

  With his focus aimed her way, Beckwith took his stance as an invitation, pushing the door open and stepping inside, her hands folded in front of her waist.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir.”

  Sensing her shift from just a few moments earlier, Ridge felt his brow come together.

  “What’s wrong, Susie?”

  “That was the Hilton on the phone, sir. There’s been an accident with Clara Tarby.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The car was big and spacious, much larger than a traditional taxi, though not quite a minivan in scale. With two rear seats facing each other, Ridge and Beckwith were able to sit together in the far back, Ellerbe and Stroh staring at them, all eight knees so close they were almost touching.

  The previous genial mood in the office was long extinguished, none of the four having finished their meal, everybody leaving in a rush once news of Clara Tarby had arrived.

  The first details to come in to Beckwith were thin at best, the front desk at the Hilton calling to say they had received a call from one of the guests that they heard noises coming from Tarby’s room. A few minutes later, they had sent somebody upstairs to check on her and they had returned later to find her face down on the bed, alive but just barely, and unresponsive.

  Paramedics had arrived within minutes and transported her to George Washington Medical Center, the front desk realiz
ing only after the fact that the room had been registered to Ridge’s office.

  What had happened to Tarby they had not a clue, her room void of any evidence of a struggle or foul play, no visible marks or blood on the body.

  Three times in succession Ridge had pressed Beckwith for the details of the phone call, his Chief of Staff relaying the exact same tale each time, her tone not once changing. Many times more he replayed it in his mind, trying to make himself believe that it was nothing but a fluke, that it didn’t have anything to do with the conversation he had earlier with General Ames.

  For as hard as he tried though, not once was he successful in pushing the thought aside, the evidence too overwhelming for him to truly believe.

  Ten hours earlier, a sturdy Wyoming woman had walked into his office. A bit frazzled emotionally for sure, she was in fine physical condition, there to ask him a simple question.

  In the course of investigating that question, he had poked a few hornet nests, culminating in a visit from a ranking military leader that he had never heard of, the man more or less telling him to walk away, being none too subtle in the process.

  True to his nature, Ridge had more or less told the man to kiss his ass.

  Now he was in a car on the way to GW to see to the original woman’s health.

  Never before had he believed in coincidence, a single one being far greater than he would ever put stock into, this being significantly more than that.

  With his hands in his lap, Ridge alternated between curling his fingers into fists and squeezing tight, feeling the tension run from his wrists up to his shoulders, and slowly releasing them. Taking a few breaths, he’d let his nerves calm, his breathing slow, before repeating the process, every imaginable form of wrath possible traversing through his system.

  Shifting his gaze to the window, he watched as government buildings filed by, their white marble exteriors aglow from orange sodium lights, only a few intrepid tourists still braving the cold, coffee cups and elongated sticks for taking self-portraits in hand.

  With his jaw clamped shut, he set the tone for the rest of the car, a stilted silence settling in, each person finding a different direction to stare, alone with their thoughts.

  The total ride from Dirksen to GW was just at three miles, the stop-and-go series of lights between the two stretching the drive to twelve minutes. By the time they arrived, Ridge could feel his nerves pulled as taut as guitar strings, tossing a twenty into the space between Ellerbe and Stroh’s shoulders and stepping out into the night air.

  A moment later, he reached the main entrance and passed through the automated doors, not once turning to see if his colleagues were still with him, trusting they would have been able to keep pace. Striding across the front lobby, he ignored the myriad of people huddled along the walls and went for the main desk, pressing his hips flush against it, his hands resting on either side.

  “We’re here to see Clara Tarby, please. She was just brought over from the Hilton.”

  Behind the desk, a young woman with brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and thick framed glasses went to work on a desktop computer, the full-sized keyboard ringing out with each stroke. Without glancing from the screen, she continued working and asked, “Family?”

  “As close as she has in D.C.,” Ridge replied.

  Frowning slightly, the woman continued on the keyboard before stopping, her lips barely moving as she read from the screen in front of her.

  “I’m sorry, but right now Ms. Tarby appears to be in surgery,” the young woman read before pulling her attention away to look up at him. “Would you like directions down to the waiting area?”

  “Please.”

  Rising halfway out of her seat, she extended an arm out to her right and said, “Follow this hallway down until you see the blue signs for the emergency surgery ward, which will be on the left. Take that hallway all the way to the end, the waiting area will be off to the side.”

  Shifting to follow her outstretched hand, Ridge repeated, “This hallway, take a left, follow all the way to the end. Thanks, got it.”

  “Mhm,” the young woman replied, sinking back into her seat as Ridge turned to find the rest of his staff there and waiting.

  “They said she’s-“

  “We heard,” Beckwith said.

  Nodding, Ridge motioned in that direction with the top of his head and said, “You folks go on down, I need to make a quick call and then I’ll be right behind you.”

  True to form, Beckwith arched a silent eyebrow at him as Ellerbe and Stroh exchanged a quick glance. For a moment not one person moved, each remaining rooted in place, before Beckwith said, “Come on guys, let’s make sure somebody is there when Ms. Tarby gets out of surgery.”

  Scads of thoughts passed through Ridge’s head as he watched them slowly shuffle off, Beckwith leading the procession, Ellerbe following with her gaze aimed down, Stroh meeting his eye and nodding slightly before going along as well.

  Positioned in the middle of the lobby, Ridge made no effort to move, even less to hide the disdain he felt, both at where he was and what he had potentially brought upon Clara Tarby. Waiting until his team disappeared from sight, he pulled his phone from his pocket and retreated back out the front door, the night air having dropped another few degrees, the wind whipping at his exposed ears, pushing down his throat and into his lungs.

  Walking until he was well out of earshot from the entrance, he extracted his phone and pulled up the last number in his log, calling it and pressing the phone back to his face.

  It was answered after only a single ring.

  “Harold Golding.”

  “Hey, Mr. Golding, Senator Ridge here, sorry to bother you, just had one more quick question.”

  “Shoot,” Golding said, the wind again rushing in behind him, loud in Ridge’s ear.

  “Does the name Arnold Ames mean anything to you?” Ridge asked, leaving off the man’s title, making it intentionally vague so as to not influence the answer in any way.

  “Ames?” Golding asked. “You mean General Ames, from Afghanistan?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Leopold Donner hadn’t bothered to follow Jackson Ridge and his staff as they dashed away from the Dirksen Senate Building. Knowing exactly where they were going, that Packard was already on-site there playing the role of a grieving mother or wife so she could keep tabs on everything, there was no need.

  Besides, they had already seen his face earlier in the day. Given the circumstances, it didn’t seem likely that they would remember him – at least not enough to put together a definitive identification – but there existed no reason to even take the chance.

  Especially not knowing what else the night ahead might hold.

  Instead, he waited until they were gone before peeling away from the bench and returning to his car. Hiding behind the tinted windows of the back seat, he changed out of the suit and returned to something more resourceful, not going as far as his preferred tactical attire, but wearing something that allowed him a bit more ease of movement coupled with the ability to blend in.

  Not to mention ample room for carrying along some of his most beloved toys, should the need arise.

  Once the suit was stripped away, he hung it carefully back onto the hanger and returned it to the back in the event it may again be needed, hoping more than anything that it wouldn’t. From there he climbed behind the wheel and exited the parking garage, pulling away into the thin evening traffic.

  Cutting his teeth in far-flung locales across the globe, Donner had never been one for urban environments. Most of his training was centered on working in the elements, jungles, mountains, even desert being his preferred mediums.

  After moving over into the private sector, a migration toward urban environments had started to develop, a trend that had started slow and begrudgingly, picking up speed with each passing year.

  While it used to be that he didn’t feel truly alive unless he was hidden away beneath a ghillie suit, peering throu
gh a scope at a target that never knew he existed, those feelings had shifted with time. Now he couldn’t help but relish the feeling that seemed to be surging through him as he stole down Constitution Avenue, as if he were a predator slipping out into the night, the city rife with potential prey.

  Given that so few of the enemies he now faced possessed anywhere near the same skill level as himself, he had grown to appreciate the added challenge that the city possessed, the constant cameras and lights keeping him sharp and focused.

  For most of the day, the situation with Ridge had been more of an observational post, but the recent escalation meant that was about to change, a fact that Donner couldn’t help but admit excited him to the core.

  Seated high in the front seat of the SUV, both hands gripping the steering wheel, veins bulging along the backs of his hands, forearm hairs standing upright, he drew in deep breaths, the adrenaline that was starting to flow as intoxicating as any narcotic could ever be.

  Clear up to the point that his phone began to ring, the artificial intrusion pulling him from the moment, putting a scowl onto his face.

  A look that only deepened as he glanced at the caller ID and saw who it was that had disturbed him.

  “Donner.”

  “Is it done?” Ames asked without preamble.

  Pressing his lips tight for a moment, Donner extended a middle finger at the phone, squeezing the remainder of his fist so tight it quivered, before releasing the tension in his hand.

  “It is,” Donner replied, not even particularly feeling like lobbing a smart comment at the general, the time for sarcasm having passed. “Ridge and his team went screaming toward the hospital a little while ago.”

  On the other end there was something resembling a grunt, no other words passing over.

  Seeing an opening, Donner asked, “I take it the meeting didn’t go especially well?”

  In response there was an unintelligible sound before Ames replied, “There’s always more than one way to achieve an objective.”