Murder on the Metro

by Margaret Truman

  “We’ve identified her as Lia Ganz, an Israeli operative, most recently for Mossad, where she was part of the country’s most elite squad of commandos. She’s a true legend over there, the most decorated woman to ever serve in the Israeli military, where she earned the nickname the ‘Lioness of Judah.’”

  Merle Talmidge managed a chuckle. “That sounds like a cartoon character.”

  “Lia Ganz is as far from that as it gets, I assure you.”

  “And have we contacted the Israelis to see what they have to say on the matter?”

  “The State Department has already utilized the proper channels. The upshot of such conversations is never made plain, but it’s safe to assume she’s been recalled. Judging from her file, though, my guess is she’s not going anywhere.”

  “But what brought her here? Why now? Why Baltimore?”

  “Let me answer the last question first: because we did too good a job of planting the intelligence about a radical Islamic cell taking up residence in that mosque. Ganz could only have gotten the information from someone who got it from us, just as we planned.”

  “This is no time to be patting yourself on the back, Director.”

  “I was only stating a fact, ma’am.”

  “What about the other facts?”

  The director of the FBI laid it all out for the first lady, step by step, starting with the fact that Lia Ganz had been on the beach in Caesarea when the worst terrorist attack Israel had suffered in years took place. That led her to uncovering the link between the drones used in that attack and the suicide vest worn by the bomber in the Washington Metro. The director elaborated on all that and finished by stressing the fact that the Israelis had provided no indication they were sending one of their own to join the investigation.

  “Isn’t that against protocol?”

  “The Israelis respect only their own protocol.”

  Merle Talmidge was still trying to make sense of all she’d just been told. “So we have bad luck to blame for this mess—that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? If Lia Ganz wasn’t on the beach with her granddaughter…”

  The director of the FBI could do nothing but nod, swallowing hard.

  “I’m afraid there’s more, Madam First Lady.”

  CHAPTER

  58

  NEW YORK CITY

  Brixton walked out of Penn Station via the nearest exit, careful to keep his face down to avoid security cameras.

  “The number you have reached is not in service at this time. Please check the number and dial again.”

  Panama was clearly out of commission, and with him the operation he was coordinating, leaving Brixton out in the cold during one of the warmest springs on record. Clearly, he’d gotten too close to the truth, and, just as clearly, that truth must have stretched to levels of power beyond what he’d anticipated. The man whose job it was to clean up other people’s messes had finally made one of his own, a big one—big enough to shut down either his operation, or him, or both.

  Brixton didn’t see much of a distinction among the three. He wondered if he’d made a mistake by informing Panama of all he’d learned from Kendra Rendine, including the truth she had uncovered about the state of the president’s mental condition. Because the suspicions that had gotten Vice President Stephanie Davenport killed now seemed directly related to an attack to be launched against the Y-12 facility in Tennessee and made to look like an Islamic terrorist strike. The pieces were all falling into place, and the finished puzzle was terrifying, Sister Mary Alice Rose having supplied the biggest piece of all.

  Kendra Rendine wasn’t answering her phone. The last time they’d spoken had been that phone call when she’d played a portion of the recording from a meeting held that very morning in the White House Situation Room. Brixton resisted the temptation to leave a message warning her to go to ground, to drop off the grid until they could figure out their next step. He kept calling the number he had for her, futilely, since she could no longer reach him on the burner phone he’d discarded.

  Whoever had pulled the plug on Panama’s operation would be coming for her, too, tying up all the loose ends, which also included him and Sister Mary Alice. The nature of her crime shouldn’t have led to a federal prison sentence at all, much less a now open-ended one in which she had effectively dropped off the face of the earth. Their conversation hadn’t yielded the reason behind that, specifically, and Brixton figured she’d be spirited to another facility to vanish anew before he could follow up.

  Unless they just killed her, these same people behind the murder of the vice president for learning of the president’s mental incapacity. Other forces were running the country in his place, led by First Lady Merle Talmidge, and those forces must be the ones pulling all the strings, from the Metro bombing to Brian Kirkland to calling off Panama’s operation to the attempt on Brixton’s life, which Lia Ganz had thwarted last night.

  One grandparent saving another, she’d said, or some version of that. What was it Mark Twain had said about age? Something like “Age is an issue of mind over matter,” Brixton recalled. “If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”

  It mattered now, though not as much as the fact that, right now, they were alone, with no one inside the government they could reasonably trust to help them prevent the looming deaths of five million Americans.

  Brixton tried Kendra Rendine again. Nothing. Then, out of frustration—or desperation maybe—he hit Redial.

  Same result.

  All he could do now was wait for Lia Ganz to reach New York.

  CHAPTER

  59

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Who is he?” Merle Talmidge asked, studying the picture the FBI director had just handed her.

  “Robert Brixton, former State Department contractor. This was shot by a security camera inside the Metropolitan Detention Center, where Brixton met for just an under an hour with Sister Mary Alice Rose.”

  “A nun in federal prison?”

  “Not just any nun, ma’am,” the director said, and proceeded to explain.

  “So why did we make an aging nun vanish without a trace into the federal penal system, even on a trespassing and sabotage charge on a secure facility?”

  “I’m not privy to all the operational details, and I haven’t been able to track them down yet. But somebody must’ve had their reasons.”

  “You need to find this ‘somebody,’ Director.”

  “As I said, I’m working on it, but such things are buried purposefully so they can’t be found. Our people are very good at such things.”

  “How comforting to hear,” the first lady chided, regarding the picture of Robert Brixton again.

  “You said he’s with State?”

  “Was, and only in an adjunct capacity, working for a contractor known as SITQUAL. You recall the suicide bombing right here in Washington five years ago?”

  “Of course.”

  “His daughter was killed in the attack. The repercussions of what followed led him out of government service and into the private sector as a rather high-end investigator specializing in international matters.”

  “And now he’s chasing down incarcerated nuns.”

  “Just one nun, ma’am,” the director reminded her, hedging a bit before continuing, “There’s more. He was also the man on the Metro who foiled the suicide bombing. That’s what set him down this path, by all indications.”

  “A thorn in our side, in other words. Do we have eyes on him, Director?”

  “Not at present, not since he departed the Metropolitan Detention Center. But we’re watching his residence and have eyes out in Union Station and both airports. So far he hasn’t returned to the city.”

  “Meaning he’s still in New York.”

  “Or somewhere else we don’t have eyes. And it’s possible he got off a train or plane at some intermediate point and drove the rest of the way to throw us off.”

  “I’m sure you’re taking a close look at traffic cameras.”

/>   “Of course, but their effectiveness is minimal on highways and we have no idea what vehicle Brixton may be driving.”

  The first lady laid the picture atop the one of Lia Ganz. “We need him found, Director. If he paid a visit to this nun who managed to infiltrate the Y-Twelve facility…”

  She let her thought drift there, no reason to complete it.

  “There’s also some additional news to report, ma’am, pertaining to the Secret Service agent who headed up the vice president’s detail.”

  “That would be the problem you briefed me on earlier?”

  The director nodded. “It’s about to be solved.”

  CHAPTER

  60

  Kendra Rendine listened to the recording a third time, and then a fourth. By the time she’d completed the fifth, she could recite the content verbatim from memory and had also managed to identify all the speakers present in the White House Situation Room at the time.

  That content was beyond chilling, and not just the parts that pertained directly to her.

  “Yet now we’re faced with this matter of the head of the vice president’s security detail. Can we be certain Davenport shared nothing with her?”

  That was the attorney general.

  “From what we’ve been able to gather, yes. All she has to go on is supposition, assumptions as to my husband’s condition, and a few holes we failed to adequately fill that are no longer an issue.”

  The first lady.

  Those words made Rendine’s chest contract so tightly, she thought she might be having a heart attack. She composed herself with several deep breaths, feeling suddenly claustrophobic inside the crowded Starbucks on Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest near the White House. Afraid to go back anywhere near her apartment, she’d taken refuge here, safe among the crowd, to collect her thoughts and plan out her next move. Brixton had the recording, too, meaning he knew everything she did. Insurance against something happening to her once she left this Starbucks or the next place where she sought refuge. Rendine didn’t dare enlist anyone else’s help, not in the wake of the fate suffered by Teddy Von Eck. She couldn’t bear the guilt of getting anyone else killed.

  No longer an issue.

  Clearly that phrase pertained to the medical personnel involved in the vice president’s procedure, who were either unreachable or had downright disappeared. But even that chilling reality paled in comparison to the president himself, who, with each word, revealed more and more what Vice President Stephanie Davenport must have concluded about his condition, which had led directly to her murder.

  “So we should accept your assurances at face value?” The attorney general.

  “Assurances about what?” The president.

  “The issue we discussed yesterday.” The first lady.

  “We did?”

  “Yes. And you agreed the steps we were about to take were necessary, mandated. That the future of the country needed to be secured and the only way to assure that was to take the kind of drastic measures that would keep you in power long enough to finish your work.”

  “My work is very important.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I’m president of the United States.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Are we going out today?”

  Suspecting what Stephanie Davenport had uncovered about President Corbin Talmidge was nothing compared to bearing witness to the president’s condition playing out in real time, at least on tape.

  “Why are all these people here?” The president again.

  “They’re helping us.” The first lady again.

  “Helping us what?”

  “Save the country.”

  “Is it in danger?”

  “You know it is, dear.”

  “From what?”

  Later, the president had said, “I don’t know who any of these people are,” even though they were all either members of his cabinet or officials he’d personally appointed.

  Everything was clear now, and in that clarity was madness, an unspeakable tragedy about to be visited upon the country purely for political gain, so that power would be secured through the next election and for who knew how long after that.

  “We must consider postponing, until we are certain of containment.” The secretary of defense.

  “If we postpone now, we invite our adversaries, traitors to this nation all, to dig deeper. In this city, digging a hole is an end in itself, even where there’s nothing to be found. Proceeding as scheduled is the surest way to avoid the very recriminations you so fear and to force them to drop their shovels.” The first lady.

  “No one here doubts the urgency of this operation. But we’re only going to get one shot, and we must assure ourselves the conditions are right.” The national security adviser.

  “They will never be more right than they are right now—or more necessary. We already went over this when we discussed the threat posed by the vice president.”

  Kendra Rendine had choked up every time she’d heard those words spoken by the first lady or replayed them in her mind. But she found the next exchange the most terrifying of all, for vastly different reasons.

  “Unless the candidate came from inside this room.”

  “Do you have someone in mind, Madam First Lady?”

  “Yes. Me.”

  “Of course, it would also position you to take your husband’s place on the ticket, should the election go forward.”

  “There is that, too, yes.”

  All indications pointed to the fact that the first lady was positioning herself to actually replace her husband as president. Outlandish at first thought, but not so much at second. In this highly polarized political climate, Corbin Talmidge enjoyed over a 60 percent approval rating, while his wife was even more popular, clocking in closer to 70 percent. There wasn’t much you couldn’t do with a 70 percent approval rating, especially after presiding over the devastation that was to come.

  In two days, the first lady had gone on to say. The day after tomorrow.

  “Sally,” a server called out from the coffee bar, using the name on the cup that had been refilled with a fresh latte. “Sally.”

  Rendine rose to retrieve it from the counter, a bit wobbly on her feet and needing to briefly grasp the chair back to steady herself. At the counter, a man was grasping the latte with her name stenciled on it.

  “Excuse me, but that’s mine.”

  The man smiled apologetically. “Is it, now?” he said in an English accent. “A thousand pardons. Won’t happen again.”

  Kendra Rendine was too distracted to notice that he left the Starbucks without any cup at all.

  CHAPTER

  61

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Lia Ganz knew her actions earlier in the day at the mosque had drastically limited her options for travel. Her picture was sure to be circulating among security personnel at both Washington area airports, as well as at Union Station and the various bus terminals serviced by Greyhound.

  That left rental car outlets, and in her experience the security at these was far laxer, especially at locations other than an airport. She chose an Enterprise location downtown on Vermont Avenue, timing her arrival for just a few minutes short of the six p.m. closing time—it was also her experience that the closer it got to closing time, the less clerks focused on anything other than getting home, the timing itself providing the ultimate distraction.

  The downtown Enterprise outlet had a surprisingly sparse collection of vehicles to choose from, and Lia chose the most innocuous vehicle left on the lot, a Chevy Cruze that was functional and likely to attract no attention whatsoever once she was headed north to New York City. She’d meet up there with Brixton, with the express purpose of—how had he put it?—breaking an eighty-five-year-old nun out of prison.

  She hadn’t called Moshe Baruch back and had taken none of the calls to her secure phone, which had started coming in as soon as she failed to show up for the flight back to Israel that he’d held fo
r her at Dulles Airport. She had broken rules, misbehaved, become an embarrassment. Not the way she’d expected to enjoy her retirement.

  She’d spent too much time away from her own children over the years, resolving at some point in each mission that it would be her last. That never stuck; it became a promise to herself that was repeatedly broken. She was a stranger to her own family, who as often as not was raised by relatives and friends, with her husband gone and her inability to pull back on the missions that defined her. Becoming a grandparent was supposed to change that, and it had, for a stretch long enough to delude Lia with the notion it would last forever. She knew otherwise in her heart, though, knew that sooner or later something would draw her back in, though she never expected it would be an attack that had come so close to taking her granddaughter’s life. The two defining elements of her life, family and duty, had clashed in that horrible moment, the former ultimately leading her back to the latter.

  The navigation app on her phone put the drive at just over four hours if current traffic conditions held, getting her into New York City not long after ten o’clock. She had left it up to Brixton to determine a meeting spot, and she guessed it would be someplace close to the federal penitentiary where Sister Mary Alice Rose was incarcerated. A woman after her own heart, by all accounts, who had managed to somehow infiltrate a secure government facility with spray paint, rosary beads, and a Bible—different weapons than Lia would have chosen, for sure.

  Lia hadn’t had much time to probe deeper into the Y-12 facility in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, but the pictures were enough to tell her that breaking into the facility should have been impossible for someone like Sister Mary Alice. From what she’d been able to glean, that means of access had been one of the primary things the federal authorities had wanted out of her, but by all accounts the nun had never told them a thing. She had never put up much of a defense at what passed for a trial, and she hadn’t given her lawyers much to work with, given that she’d been arrested on the Y-12 grounds while singing hymns.