Capital Crimes

by Stuart Woods

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll bet if you call the postmaster up there, he’ll tell you that Mr. Lawrence Keane is still getting mail, and he’ll tell you where that mail is forwarded when Mr. Keane is not in residence.”

  “What’s this island called?”

  “It’s called Isleboro.”

  “And where in Maine is it?”

  “In Penobscot Bay.” Rawls got up and went to the warden’s bookcase. “The warden has an atlas somewhere. I’ve seen him use it.” He looked among the books and plucked out an atlas of the United States, brought it back to the table and opened it.

  “Here we are—State of Maine. Here’s Penobscot Bay, the biggest bay in the state. This long island, here, is Islesboro. You take a ferry from Lincolnsville, on the mainland, just north of Camden, to get there.” He pointed to the northern end of the island. “This is North Islesboro, and that’s where Teddy’s place is.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “I don’t know, but the postmaster would. His name is Seth Hotchkiss. He’ll be in the book.”

  “And the ferry is the only way to the island?”

  “Well, you can go by boat. The main harbor is here, at Dark Harbor. Oh, and there’s an airstrip.”

  “Where?”

  Rawls pointed to a spot on the page. “It’s not on this map, but it’s right here. It’s a paved strip, I think twenty-four-hundred feet. You can get a light airplane in there, or a chopper, of course.”

  “Where’s a bigger airport?”

  Rawls tapped the map. “On the mainland, right here at Rock-land. I don’t know the runway lengths, but you can get just about anything in there.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s it. I promise you, he’s going to be at one of those two places. I’d try Manassas Airport first. That’ll be where he’s operating from. Islesboro is where he’ll run to when he’s done.”

  “You think he’ll finish killing people at some point, then?”

  “From what I heard on the news, he’s gotten his assets moved somewhere. He wouldn’t do that if he was trying to martyr himself.”

  That coincided with Kinney’s thinking. “Okay, Mr. Rawls, we’re done here.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you,” Rawls said. “A cashier’s check will be fine, but I’d like a few grand of walking-around money in cash.”

  Kinney left the room. “He’s all yours,” he said to the warden and the waiting guard.

  In the car, Smith asked, “What do you think?”

  “I’d call this a very low order of information,” Kinney said, “if we had anything else at all to go on. But we don’t.”

  50

  Ted woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, as was his habit, and when he came back to bed, he couldn’t sleep. He got up, turned on his laptop, and went to the ACT NOW website. Something had been troubling him. He had passed over a target because he was so obvious and because he would be difficult to kill. Now his conscience was hurting him. He felt he couldn’t end his little crusade without knocking off this one man, who had, Ted felt, done so much to harm his country. He stared at the photograph, and his dander rose.

  Eft Efton, speaker of the House, had given this administration fits in getting legislation out of the lower house. The president had a slim majority in the Senate, but in the House he was half a dozen votes shy, and he had had to deal with the speaker to get any legislation through at all.

  The speaker had protection, though, and since he was third in line for the presidency, he was guarded by the Secret Service, which had put Ted off. Now Ted reconsidered. The Secret Service detail would be much smaller than the president’s, perhaps only three or four guards. He opened his file on the speaker and read the notes he had kept when researching a possible kill. He had decided earlier, on the evidence, that the easiest shot, and one with the greatest chance of escape, would be while the speaker was in a moving car. The car, of course, would be armored, but Ted had a solution for that.

  He looked at the routes the speaker’s driver took from his house in Georgetown to the Capitol: There were four, but it hardly mattered, if he followed the car from his house.

  The time was more important; the speaker left his house at eight o’clock sharp each morning, walked quickly from the front door to the car, and didn’t emerge from it until he was safe in the Capitol garage.

  Ted stayed up most of the rest of the night planning the killing, and finally, he was satisfied that it would work. He would have to sacrifice the Mercedes, but he had planned to sell it, anyway, and, once clean, it couldn’t be traced back to him.

  He opened one of his weapons caches in the RV and found the piece that would defeat the glass in the speaker’s armored vehicle. It was, essentially, a large, semiautomatic handgun with a folding stock that would fire a .50-caliber, armor-piercing shell, and it had a ten-round magazine. He had made the first one in the Agency’s shops and the second one in his home shop, and, as far as he knew, the two examples were the only ones in existence. The weapon would be a nasty surprise for the speaker.

  Ted chose a cotton jumpsuit for clothing and a brown wig and a Vandyke beard for a disguise. With his planning done, he wiped down the Mercedes thoroughly, set his alarm clock, and went back to bed.

  As soon as the G-III took off, Kinney was on the phone to the duty officer in the Hoover Building.

  “I want a twelve-man SWAT team assembled and ready to roll by three a.m.,” he said. “Be sure they’re equipped with listening equipment. I’ll call you back with a destination.” He hung up the phone and went forward to talk to the pilots.

  “We’ve just cleared the Atlanta Class B airspace,” the pilot said.

  “There’s a Manassas Regional Airport in Virginia,” he said to the pilot. “Can you land there?”

  “Just a minute.” The pilot picked up an airport guide and checked Manassas. “They have a fifty-seven-hundred-foot runway. We can land there.”

  Kinney took the book from him and looked at the airport plan. He could see a row of T-hangars on the west side of the field and, behind them a larger single hangar. He picked out a fixed base operator from the list in the manual. “All right,” he said, “change our destination to Manassas. We’ll stop at Dulles Aviation.”

  “Will do,” the pilot said. He called Atlanta Center, requested the change in destination and was given a new clearance and routing.

  “What’s our ETA?” Kinney asked when the pilot had entered the new routing into his flight computer.

  “Three-thirty-one a.m.,” the pilot replied.

  Kinney took the reference manual, went back to his seat, and called the duty officer. “When your SWAT team is ready, tell them their destination is the Manassas Regional Airport, in northern Virginia. I will meet them in the parking lot of Dulles Aviation, on the east side of the field. Tell them they are not—repeat, not—to drive onto the ramp; I will come to them. I want them in the parking lot no later than four-thirty a.m., armed and ready.”

  “We’re landing at Manassas?” Kerry Smith asked.

  “Right. Here’s the airport plan.” Smith leaned over and looked at the book. “We’re assembling with the SWAT team in the parking lot, here. We’ll recce the hangar, here, first, then we’ll bring in the team and take it.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Smith said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  In the hangar, cozy in his RV, Ted slept on.

  51

  The G-III touched down exactly on schedule and taxied to Dulles Aviation. The engines were shut down, and the copilot opened the airstair door.

  Kinney and Smith were out of the airplane in a hurry, jogging toward the FBO. The lights were on inside, and a man sat at the main desk, staring at a television set.

  Kinney flashed his ID. “FBI. How long before people start coming into this facility?”

  “Usually not until after five A.M.,” the man said, “but occasionally somebody will land or turn up for a
departure. You guys want fuel?”

  “Check with one of the pilots,” Kinney said. “We’re going to be conducting an operation on this airport shortly.” He pointed to the west. “Do you know who owns or rents that big hangar behind the T-hangars?”

  “That’s Mr. Zane,” the man replied. “He bought it a long time ago, I think, but he doesn’t seem to have an airplane. At least, we’ve never sold him any fuel.”

  “Do you know what he uses it for?”

  “A garage, I think. I’ve seen an RV come and go.”

  “What kind of RV?”

  “Big, white, stripes down the side.”

  “That sounds like every RV. Do you know the make?”

  “No, sir. I don’t know anything about RVs, just airplanes.”

  “All right, now listen to me: I’m going to put a man with a radio in here with you. If anybody arrives, you tell them the airport is closed for an hour or two, and they’ll have to wait to go to their aircraft. Then, when we start the operation, I want you and anyone else who arrives to lie on the floor behind your desk. I don’t want anybody to catch a stray bullet.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said.

  “Do you have a large plan of the airport?”

  The man pointed to a wall, where a framed map about four-by-six feet hung.

  Kinney went through the main entrance of the building into the parking lot, where two black vans sat idling. He tapped on the window of one of them, and it slid down.

  “I’m Kinney, this is Smith,” he said. “Get your men out of there and all of you come inside. Kerry, get the people from the second van.”

  A moment later, they were inside the FBO, gathered around the map.

  Kinney borrowed a weapon from an agent and used its laser sight as a pointer. “This is our objective,” he said, pointing to the large hangar. “We’re looking for one man, Theodore Fay, inside, probably in an RV, certainly heavily armed and a fine shot. We have to do this with the greatest care. I want two men to take some listening equipment and go over there on foot. I want you to attach the equipment to the two side walls, the ones with no doors, and radio back what you hear. You are not, repeat, not, to try to detain this man if you see him. If he sees you and runs, you are authorized to fire at him, but aim low. We want him alive, if possible. Any questions?”

  Nobody said anything.

  Kinney pointed to the SWAT team leader. “Pick two men and get them on their way,” He borrowed a two-way radio. “What channel do we use?”

  “Three,” the team leader said.

  “Right”

  Kinney paced around the large lounge while he waited for the report.

  “Base, this is recce,” a voice said.

  “This is base,” Kinney replied. “Report.”

  “The building is dark, and there are no sounds from inside. If he has an RV, he could be asleep.”

  “Hold your positions and wait for backup,” Kinney said. He turned to the team leader. “Let’s go. Everybody on foot. You can have two men drive your vehicles around to the other side of the airport, but keep your lights off, and stay well back from the hangar. I don’t want our man to hear any vehicles coming. When everybody is in place, wait for my command to go in.”

  “Yes, sir.” The team leader barked instructions, and everybody started to carry out his orders. Kinney and Smith followed a few paces behind the main group as they trotted across the runway toward the T-hangars.

  “I wish we had body armor,” Smith said.

  “So do I,” Kinney replied.

  As they went around the T-hangars, the group began to move with more stealth. Then they were in place.

  Smith caught up to the SWAT team leader. “We can’t open the big hangar doors from outside, so that”—he pointed to a door in one wall of the hangar—“is going to be the only way in. I want the door opened very quietly, and your men in there with night-vision goggles. Nobody turns on the interior lights until I say so.

  “If there’s an RV inside, I want it taken without incident, so be very careful how you open the door. I want men on only one side of it—the door side—so that if you shoot through it nobody on the other side will catch a round. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go.”

  Using hand signals, the leader ordered his men to don their night-vision goggles and to go in.

  Kinney and Smith stood around the corner of the hangar from the door, waiting for it to be opened. It was done in less than thirty seconds, and the men filed through it silently, weapons at the ready. Kinney peeked around the corner through the door, but he could see nothing but dark. A minute passed, then suddenly, all the lights came on in the hangar, and the bifold door began to rise.

  “What the hell?” Kinney said. He stepped into the hangar, weapon raised, and looked around. It was empty.

  “Everybody hold your place!” Kinney shouted.

  The men all froze.

  “One man, open the door of the office, over there.”

  One man did so. “Clear!” he shouted.

  Kinney trotted over to the office and went inside. There was some furniture and a big TV set, and there was an empty workbench in one corner. “Put some gloves on,” he said, donning a pair himself. “Now, call headquarters and get a criminalist team out here. I want prints, if there are any.”

  Smith produced a cell phone and made the call.

  Kinney walked around the office, looking for any obvious evidence of the man who had been there. He could see nothing.

  Ten minutes before Kinney’s first men had arrived, Ted had driven out the back gate of the airport in the RV, towing the Mercedes. He was headed toward Washington and a rendezvous with the speaker of the House.

  52

  Ted turned into a parking garage that he had selected long ago, because he could drive in and park while towing the Mercedes. He stopped the RV, got out, unfastened the tow bar and stowed it under the rear bumper, where a bracket had been welded, then he donned a pair of latex gloves, got into the Mercedes, and drove to Georgetown.

  The speaker of the House was wakened by his wife at 6:30 a.m., and not gently.

  “Eft,” she said, “you’d better get your ass out of that bed right now, or you’re going to miss the meeting of the leadership.”

  “Mmmmf,” Efton replied, turning over and staring at the ceiling. “I think I have a hangover.”

  “And you’re surprised? You drank at least half a bottle of Scotch last night. We’re going to have to get you into a program.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, girl, leave me alone. It’s not as though I drink that much every night. It was a party!” He rolled out of bed and staggered toward the bathroom. “Make me some bacon and eggs, will you?”

  “You don’t need all that grease in your stomach. What you need is bran cereal, and that’s what you’ll get.”

  The shower muted the sounds of Efton’s swearing.

  Ted parked nearly two blocks down the Georgetown street from the speaker’s house and watched. He could see the front door clearly, but nobody was taking any note of him. He could see the exhaust fumes of the two Suburbans idling outside the house. What he needed most to know was in which car Efton would be riding.

  Efton finished his bran cereal and resisted the urge to puke it up on the breakfast table. He was shaved, showered, and dressed, and only someone who could look closely into his eyes would have seen the hangover lurking there. He quickly scanned the front pages of the Post and both the New York and Washington Times for mention of his name, and when he didn’t find it, became quickly bored.

  “Eft, please get going!” his wife begged. She didn’t want to be blamed later if he was late to his meeting.

  Efton gathered up the newspapers for reading in the car, got his coat and briefcase from the hall closet, and left the house.

  Ted watched as Efton emerged, looked up and down the street, then ran down his front steps and got into the second Suburban. No way to tell how many agents there were in
each car, but probably two, one driving and one riding shotgun, while Efton had the rear seat to himself. As the two Suburbans left the curb, he pulled out and followed them, staying two blocks behind. They made a right turn, and from that, Ted guessed that they would be taking route number one, the most direct. Efton was probably running late.

  The two trucks turned left onto Pennsylvania Avenue and proceeded toward the Capitol. Ted was caught at a light and waited impatiently for it to change. Once it did, the massive acceleration at his disposal quickly caught him up. Now he moved into the right lane and closed the distance between his car and the two Suburbans. A block ahead, he saw a traffic light turn to red. There was nothing between his car and the light, so he could stop next to the trucks. His windows were blackened, like those of the Suburbans, so they could see him no better than he could see them. Ted stopped next to the Suburbans, carefully choosing his position between the two trucks. He had only until the light changed. He picked up the weapon and worked the action, chambering the first round; he checked the cross-street traffic, then he pressed the down switch on his window. From his position a little ahead of the second Suburban, he could see through the windshield into the car, could see both the driver and Efton. There was only one agent in the car. He fired the first round before his window was fully down, killing the driver, then he turned the weapon toward Efton and began emptying the magazine, first at the man, then at the front passenger seat as Efton ducked behind it.