by Stuart Woods
Ted picked up the phone and got the number for the Supreme Court, then dialed it and asked for Justice Graydon.
“Justice Graydon’s chambers,” a young woman’s voice said.
“This is Tim Johnson in the Attorney General’s office,” he said. “The general has a friend of the family, a recent graduate of Yale Law School, who would like to interview for a clerk’s position. She’s coming to Washington for the day later this week, and the general wondered if Justice Graydon could possibly see her on Friday afternoon?”
“I’m afraid Justice Graydon won’t be in on Friday afternoon,” the young woman said. “He goes to his country place most weekends. Could she possibly come in on Friday morning?”
“I’m afraid not,” Ted said. “Let me call you back to arrange this when I know more about her schedule. Thanks very much.” He hung up.
By noon on Friday, Ted was in the Mercedes, parked not far from the garage exit at the Supreme Court building. It was nearly three o’clock before the black SUV emerged, followed by the gray security van. Ted started the engine and followed, keeping one or two cars between himself and the security van. The Friday afternoon exit from Washington was building, and the traffic was helpful to him in keeping the two vehicles in sight.
Graydon returned to his home to pick up some luggage and his wife, and with a security agent at the wheel, the car drove away from the house a little after four. A light rain was beginning to fall, and Ted switched on his wipers and lights.
He followed the entourage to the beltway, then to the interstate north, and forty-five minutes out of Washington, he watched as the SUV and the security van pulled off the highway into a rest stop with a restaurant and a service station. The SUV had to park some distance from the restaurant, because of the lack of free parking spaces, and Justice Graydon, his wife, and his bodyguard all got out and walked a hundred yards to the restaurant. The security van followed and parked at the curb outside. It was facing away from the parking lot, which suited Ted’s purposes.
He parked the Mercedes near the SUV, got out, and looked around. He waited until a couple nearby had left their car and the area, then he quickly walked to the SUV, took a slim-jim tool from under his jacket, and unlocked the door. He popped the hood, and, after another quick look around, raised the hood and, with a small screwdriver, removed the cover from the central computer box, extracted the central processing chip, and replaced it with his modified version. Seconds later, he was back in the Mercedes and on his way back to the hangar, where he had much work to do.
When they returned to the SUV, the agent pointed the remote control at the car and pressed the unlock button. The horn beeped, and the parking lights flashed. It did not occur to him that the car might already be unlocked.
Teddy was back in the hangar by early evening, and he began packing things into the RV and the Mercedes. With only a short break for dinner, he worked until past midnight, cleaning up after himself. Finally, he maneuvered the Mercedes behind the RV and hooked up the towbar. He fell into bed after 1 a.m. A good night’s sleep and he would be on his way.
48
Will read the letter from his wife once more, then he pressed a button on his intercom. “See if you can get Mrs. Lee,” he said. “She’s probably on her way home by now.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” the secretary said.
Shortly, Kate came on the line. “Hi, I’ve just left Langley.”
“I got your fax,” “Will said. ”Are these people really on board for this?“
“Koppel and Adams are. Hugh English was reluctant, but with the new information that came in, he folded.”
“What new information?”
“Our acquaintance in Atlanta says he can be helpful in locating Mr. Fay.”
“Can anyone hear you?” Will asked.
“No, I’m in the backseat, and the partition is up.”
“How the hell can he be helpful with that?”
“He has been in touch with me, saying he knew who the killer was, and he wanted a pardon in return for the information. Then, when we finally got Fay’s name and description, he emailed me this morning and said he knows where to find him. What we’re recommending is the promise of a pardon if his information is good.”
“I hate tradeoffs like this,” Will said.
“I know you do, but what choice do we have? If someone else is killed because we didn’t act on this, the consequences could be very bad for you.”
“Not to mention the victim and his family.”
“Exactly. Oh, Rawls wants the FBI reward, too.”
“I suppose, if his information is good, he’d be entitled to it.”
“Yes. I suggest you announce the pardon at Christmastime, when you do the annual list of pardons. Never mind that he’d already be free by then. I think you can justify the delay in announcing.”
“All right, I’ll have an answer for you by the time you get home.”
“See you soon.” She hung up.
Will read the recommendation again. He didn’t like this at all. Rawls had been Kate’s mentor at the CIA, and this was going to look too cozy, as if she were doing a favor for an old friend. He went into his small study and locked the letter from Kate and her colleagues in his personal safe, then he called his secretary in and dictated a letter.
“Get ahold of Deputy Director Kinney at the FBI and ask him to come to the White House immediately. Tell him he’s going to have to fly to Atlanta tonight and to make the travel arrangements.”
He read over the letter, then he signed it and sealed it in a While House envelope.
Bob Kinney was sitting at a table in a Georgetown restaurant, gazing into Nancy Kimble’s eyes. “God, I’m glad you’re back,” he said.
“So am I.”
They clinked glasses, and as they did, his cell phone rang.
“Dammit, I forgot to turn it off,” he said, glancing at the instrument. He flipped it open. “Kinney.” He listened for a moment. “Atlanta? Why?” His shoulders sagged. “I’ll be there inside half an hour.” He closed the phone.
“What is it?”
“I have to go to the White House, then to Atlanta on some mission or other for the president. I’m awfully sorry.”
“It can’t be helped,” she said. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
“You have your key to the apartment?”
“Yes, you go ahead. I can walk home.”
He stood up, kissed her, and ran for a taxi. On the way to the White House, he called the duty officer in the Hoover Building. “This is Deputy Director Kinney,” he said. “I have to fly to Atlanta immediately. Call Andrews and order a plane, fuel for Charlie Brown Airport, then call Agent Kerry Smith and have him meet me at Andrews.” He hung up and wondered what the hell was going on.
Bob Kinney was ushered into the family quarters of the White House only moments after Kate had arrived. Will offered him a seat, then handed him the envelope.
“Agent Kinney, I’d like you to fly to Atlanta immediately and hand-deliver this letter to Edward Rawls, who is an inmate at the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary.”
“Yes, sir,” Kinney replied.
“Mr. Rawls says that he knows where to find Theodore Fay. The letter says that if his information is good he will receive a presidential pardon and the reward we are offering for Fay’s capture. I want you to interrogate him thoroughly, then act on whatever information he gives you.”
“I know who Rawls is, Mr. President, but may I ask, how can he possibly know where Fay is?”
Kate spoke up. “They both worked for the CIA, and they probably worked together at one time. We don’t know the details, but Rawls says he knows where to find the man. We have nothing to lose by playing his game. If his information is incorrect, he stays where he is.”
“I understand,” Kinney said. “I’ve already ordered an aircraft for the trip.”
“Phone me after you’ve talked with Rawls,” Will said. “I’ll leave word with the switchboard to put
you through.” He stood up and shook Kinney’s hand. “Good night, and good luck.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kinney said. “Oh, excuse me. Could you arrange for a car to take me to Andrews Air Force Base? I came here in a cab. My car is at home.”
“Of course,” Will said, picking up a phone.
Kerry Smith was waiting when the White House car pulled up to the hangar. A Gulfstream III was sitting on the ramp, its engines running.
“What’s up?” Smith yelled over the noise.
“I’ll tell you when we’re aboard,” Kinney shouted back, beckoning for him to follow.
When they were aboard the airplane and the door was sealed, Kinney sank into a large armchair.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said, “but we’re flying to Atlanta to talk to a convicted traitor who says he knows where Fay is.”
“Who’s the traitor?”
“Ed Rawls.”
Smith shook his head.
“You’re too young to remember. He’s been inside a long time.” Kinney pulled out the envelope. “This is a letter from the president, offering him a pardon if his information is good.”
“Now that I don’t believe,” Smith said.
49
Ed Rawls was awakened from a sound sleep by a guard at 10:30 p.m.
“Get up, Ed, and get dressed. The warden wants to see you.”
Rawls splashed some water on his face and got into his clothes. He didn’t ask what it was about; he knew. He followed the guard downstairs from his tier and through a series of corridors until he came to the warden’s suite of offices. The warden was standing outside his office door waiting.
“Some people want to see you, Ed,” the warden said. “In my office.”
Rawls was ushered into the office, and the door closed behind him. Two men who were sitting at the warden’s conference table stood up.
“Mr. Rawls,” the bigger one said. “My name is Robert Kinney and this is Kerry Smith. We’re from the FBI.” Both men flashed their ID. “Have a seat.”
Rawls pulled up a chair to the table and sat down. “Good evening, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”
Kinney took an envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table. “This is a letter for you from the president of the United States.”
“For me?” Rawls asked with mock surprise.
“Read it, please.”
Rawls took his time. He slid a finger under the flap of the envelope and carefully pried it open, as if he wished to preserve the envelope. He fished out the letter, unfolded it, and put on his reading glasses, which were on a string around his neck. “Well, let’s see what the president has to say to me.”
He read the letter twice, carefully. “Well, gentlemen, you can tell the president that this isn’t going to do it.”
Kinney blinked. “Do you mind if I read the letter?”
Rawls handed it over.
Kinney read the letter and looked up at Rawls. “This is a get-out-of-jail-free card,” he said. “What’s the matter with that?”
“It isn’t a pardon,” Rawls said.
“As I read it, and I’m an attorney, it’s a firm promise of a pardon, providing you give us good information.”
“It’s not a pardon,” Rawls repeated.
“You expect the president to hand you a pardon—signed, sealed, and delivered—without hearing a word from you?”
“That’s what I expect,” Rawls said.
“Well, Mr. Rawls, you’re a fool,” Kinney replied, standing up. Smith stood up, too.
“I’ll convey your message to the president, but I can tell you from my conversation with him on this matter that this is a letter he was very reluctant to sign, and he’s certainly not going to send me or anyone else down here with a full pardon that you haven’t paid for.” Kinney put the letter in his pocket and started for the door, followed by Smith.
“All right, all right,” Rawls said. “Sit down and let’s get this done.”
The two agents sat down again and waited for Rawls to speak.
“Can I have the letter back, please?”
Kinney took the letter out of his pocket and handed it to Rawls.
I’m taking it back in thirty seconds if you haven’t started talking.“
“I’m going to need some money and some transportation,” Rawls said.
“There’s a reward of a million dollars up for grabs. You can buy your own transportation. Now stop wasting my time.”
“The guy you want is Teddy Fay.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Teddy was the tech guy on an operation I ran a long time ago. He made a car bomb for me that was a beaut—small, powerful, and set to go off when the guy got out of the car, not into it.”
“Like the Vandervelt bomb.”
“Exactly like the Vandervelt bomb. At the time, the Agency was short of space, and Teddy and some of his people were working in a rented hangar at a small airport south of Washington.”
“Go on.”
“I remember Teddy telling me that he was moving his people to Langley in a few weeks, and that he was really going to miss his hangar. He was very fond of it”
Kinney stared at Rawls. “That’s it? He was fond of his hangar?”
“I think Teddy bought or rented the hangar after he moved his people out.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Call it a hunch.”
“A hunch,” Kinney repeated tonelessly.
“I’m very good with hunches,” Rawls said. “Something about the way he talked about the hangar made me think he wanted it for himself.”
Kinney turned to Smith. “Do you believe this?”
“No,” Smith replied, “I don’t”
“Now wait a minute, guys,” Rawls said. “Think about this: The hangar is a nice, cozy place to work, with no interference. It’s on the west side of the airport, away from the terminal and the flight school. It’s private, and it has the space to hide his RV, plus, it has all the services—power, computer communications, workshop area— that Teddy would need.”
“What airport is this?”
“Manassas.”
“I know it,” Smith said.
“All right, Mr. Rawls, we’ll check it out, but I have to tell you, this is a very long shot. If I’d known what you were going to say, I wouldn’t have made the trip.”
“Wait a minute, fellas,” Rawls said. “I’m not through.”
“We’re listening.”
“I have a house—an old family place—on an island in Maine, been in the family for nearly a hundred years.”
“Go on.”
“The last summer I was up there, the summer before I, ah, ran into difficulties with my freedom, I’m in a little grocery store—it’s the only one on the island, so everybody uses it. And who should I see shopping there but Teddy Fay. Now, it’s standard operating procedure with Agency people that, if you see a colleague someplace off the campus, you don’t go up to him and slap him on the back, because you don’t know if he’s working. So I said nothing, and Teddy never saw me.
“Next day, I’m at the little post office, getting my mail, and I ask the postmaster if there’s somebody on the island named Fay. He says he’s never heard of anybody by that name. Now, on the island, the postmaster knows everybody, and I mean absolutely everybody, so I figure Teddy is working.
“Then I go home, and I think about it, and I figure there’s no way he’s working, because this is not the sort of place to attract any Agency operation, and if it did, I’d know about it, because the Agency knew I had the house and would have informed me that something was happening on my turf. Also, Teddy is Tech Services, not an operational agent, so I think maybe he’s renting on the island for a couple of weeks.
“A week or so goes by, and I’m stopping at the post office for my mail, and as I pull up to park, Teddy comes out, gets into an old pickup, and drives away. I go into the post office and say to the postmaster, ”Who�
�s the guy who just left in the pickup?“ He says, ”Oh, that’s Mr. Keane, Lawrence Keane, just bought himself a place up on the north island.“”
“So what?” Kinney asked. “Don’t CIA people use false names all the time?”
“Not when they’re not working, and especially not tech people. You see, what Teddy was doing was establishing himself a hidey-hole, a safe house, in a remote place.”
