by David Bishop
Jack waited while the murmurs quieted, Dunn’s face turning red. Then he held his palms outward.
“Mr. Dunn, you are not and never was a suspect. I only wished to illustrate the point you refused to accept. It would be unfair to name people who have been cleared. My career has required the analysis of a situation and a quick effective thrust to get the job done or, in this case, the point made. I trust you’ll forgive me for appearing insensitive.”
“Mr. McCall, Mr. McCall.”
“Yes?” Jack pointed to a round sturdy gentleman in the back row.
“Sal Ramirez from CNN. Mr. McCall, how did LW get past your security to kill Court nominee Gerald Garfield and his wife?”
“I failed to consider protection for the nominees.”
The president cleared his throat and stepped forward. Jack moved to the side.
“Mr. Ramirez,” Schroeder said, “if you knew Jack McCall as I do, you’d know he makes no excuses and deflects no accountability. In fairness, it should be acknowledged that Mr. McCall’s job has been to identify and stop this LW and his militia. Providing security is not part of his assignment.”
The president stepped back and Jack gestured to his right, calling on a female member of the press corp. “The lady on the end in the third row.”
A plump woman in a bright red dress stood and spoke through matching colored lips. “I’m Agnes Patterson from the Detroit Ledger. Mr. McCall, you’ve told us that you cannot identify suspects and the specifics of the progress of your investigation. Can you tell us how soon you anticipate ending this terrorizing of America?”
“Another valid question,” Jack replied. “I only wish that I could answer it. The truth is we just don’t know. We believe we’re making progress, but an investigation cannot fool itself, and I will not attempt to fool you. The lady in the center of the room.”
“My name is Marian Little from local NewsCentral Seven,” she said. “Do you have a comment on LW’s killing of counterterrorism expert Charles Nesbit?”
There it was. The opening. The reason Jack was doing the press conference. He squared his shoulders and looked straight into the cameras.
“Men like Charles Nesbit have kept America free and safe for even the likes of you, Commander LW. Mr. Nesbit did nothing but speak his mind when asked a question. Free speech is essential to the representative government you claim to espouse. But your idea of representative government is that it must be what you dictate. America will never follow a dictator. So tonight I warn you: if you’re smart, surrender, because we’re coming for you.”
The audience of media, having never heard a press conference used to deliver a direct threat, sat stunned. Then a gray-haired man with a slight hunchback stood without being called on and broke the silence.
“Kenneth George. Los Angeles Times. Mr. McCall, may I say I find your forthrightness refreshing. What can you tell us about this LW? What makes his kind tick?”
I’d rather parachute behind enemy lines, Jack thought, than do any more of these press conferences. In special ops, the enemy was often both easier to identify and to anticipate. And, he knew how to treat that enemy.
“It’s a complicated world, Mr. George. To answer your question, I’m no psychiatrist. The furthest thing from it, but for me people like LW are a mutation. They believe they have the ultimate wisdom, but they lack the courage and commitment to work within the American system. They cloak their cowardice in violence, rationalizing that their violence is necessary to remedy the injustice they perceive. I feel sorry for LW.”
The reporters were all on the fronts of their chairs, edgy in trying to time the moment when they might start their question to be heard first, in just the right tone to capture the audience.
“My father loved America,” Jack continued. “He would have helped LW learn how to serve, not try to destroy, our country. We believe LW’s father may have been a sexual deviant, perhaps an abuser of drugs, some combination of human deficiencies that denied LW a proper role model.”
Jack stood stone still and silent, then went for the jugular of the only viewer in whom he held an interest. “LW is a murderer, no more honorable than any other vicious killer. Violence is the last resort of weak men holding failed ideals.”
When it was over, Jack walked out beside the president. As they hurried out the door, Jack reminded himself that LW had killed Charlie Nesbitt within a day or so of Nessy’s comments on television. If this public insult of LW’s father worked, Jack knew the assassin would soon be coming for him.
CHAPTER 29
McCall warns LW: ready or not, here I come.
—Sal Ramirez, CNN, June 14
After Jack’s press conference, the president took the elevator up to the fitness room, changed into a pair of sweats, and did fifteen minutes on the stair stepper, then moved to the treadmill. He could not get his mind off what Jack had said toward the end of his meeting with the press. After only ten minutes of his usual thirty-minute walk, he hit the stop button, got off and picked up the phone to buzz his chief of staff.
“Clancy, I trust you heard the press conference?”
“Yes, Mr. President, I watched with Harriet, Fred, and General Crook. We found Jack very effective. At the end he appeared to be taunting LW.”
“You’re damn right. I want to confirm that there’s a protective detail on Jack.”
“Mr. President, it’s on all the members of Jack’s squad, but not Jack. He refused protection for himself.”
“What? And you didn’t do it anyway?”
“Your order was that we were to give Jack our full cooperation. So we did what he asked.”
The president rested his forehead in the palm of his hand. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“Mr. President, Jack is apparently setting himself up as bait. If so, he doesn’t wish to chance LW seeing our people and backing off.”
“I’m countermanding Jack’s order. Get some top personnel on him. I want it operational tonight.”
“Yes, sir. Right away. Anything else, Mr. President?”
“Yeah. Damn it. Have them give Jack some space. Tell your people to back off enough so that Jack doesn’t know they’re there. If he can’t tell, LW won’t know. I want good men, close enough to come on strong if he needs help.”
The president slammed down the phone, turned off his desk lamp, and prayed he had not just put Jack’s neck in a noose.
Jack returned to the Bullpen after the press conference to find the room unoccupied except for Rachel, who had fallen asleep at her desk. Her head next to a partially eaten apple balanced on the end of its core. Her clothes were disheveled and her hair a mess. He moved closer and stood quietly listening to her soft breathing. She was beautiful.
He gently canoodled her shoulder. “Rachel,” he whispered, “wake up.”
Her eyelids lifted. Her hand bumped the uneven apple. It rolled away with a strange wobble.
“Oh, Jack. I guess I dozed off after watching your press conference. I thought you might come back here.”
He shook his head. “You’ve gotten to know me pretty well, haven’t you, Ms. Johnstone?”
She touched his arm. “A lady gets to know her coworkers.”
“So I’m not Spook anymore?”
“Oh, I think we’ve worn that one out, don’t you? Why don’t you drive me home? I can leave my car here if you’ll stop to pick me up in the morning.”
“It would be my pleasure,” he said.
Rachel looked at Jack as he drove. His button-down shirt had long ago lost its morning look, his tie knot yanked crooked to one side, and a five-o’clock shadow darkened his cheeks and chin. He was sexy in an earthy way. Then she glanced down at her own outfit and saw a fully qualified candidate for the take-me-to-the-dry-cleaners stack. If things went according to plan, she’d soon have it off. The FBI had taught Rachel that a lack of sleep can lower a suspect’s resistence during an interrogation. She planned to find out if it would do the same during a seduction.
While driving across the Key Bridge, Jack told her about his most recent call from LW. As he steered his Chrysler out of the Sheridan Circle onto Twenty-Fourth Street near the Woodrow Wilson House, she casually said, “That Marian Little from channel seven is hot.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Come on now. Women notice shoes, clothes, hairstyles, everything other women wear, even jewelry and handbags. Men only notice BL&T, breasts, legs and tush, and Ms. Little has ’em all.”
“You couldn’t see her butt on television.”
“I’d seen it before.”
“Is there a side to you I don’t know?”
“Don’t try to fog the issue. For men a woman’s outfit is only relevant to the extent that it aids or detracts noticing the body. Admit it.”
Jack glanced over and grinned.
Rachel knew her plan for Jack would provide titillation for the protective detail watching her place, but the hell with them. Tonight she planned to finish some old business.
He pulled to the curb in front of her apartment, a middle-class building that was home for a scattering of executive secretaries and others who helped run the machinery of the nation’s government.
“I’m sorry about your cat,” he said. “Jingles, right?”
“Yes. Thank you. That crazy cat would always meet me at the door when I got home and bug me nonstop until I filled his food bowl, even if it was already full. Funny, isn’t it, how we remember the silly things.”
“Yeah.”
“Here’s another silly thing,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “I promised Jingles we’d get the bastard.” She turned toward him and looked into his eyes. “Come on in, Jack. We’re both tired, but sometimes there are things that are more important to rest than sleep alone.”
The brain is an amazing thing—the body’s only analytical, reasoning organ. And Jack’s screamed, “Watch out. You work with this woman.” At the same time man’s reactionary organ silently screamed, Go on in and get laid.
On the way up the stairs, she said, “Cover your eyes at the top of the landing or the streetlight will blind you.” She unlocked and opened the door and flipped on the light. “This is it. The bathroom’s off the hall, if you need it.”
“Yes. I do.”
When he came out, she was in the kitchen. “I’m opening a Zinfandel,” she called out. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”
When she brought in the bottle and two glasses, he was looking at the titles of the books on the shelves of her entertainment center. “The spines on the novels haven’t been creased,” he said.
“I know. But I keep buying them.” She set the glasses on the coffee table in front of the couch. “I just can’t find the time to read them.”
She poured the glasses halfway, sat beside him, and handed him one. “I don’t know how you guys wear those infernal ties all day. Take it off. Get comfortable.”
“Habit, I guess.” Jack pulled off the tie and pushed off his shoes. Then he put his feet on the table, sipped his wine, and enjoyed the surrounding solitude with his eyes closed.
After a few minutes their breathing fell into a matching rhythm, as if guided by an invisible metronome.
“Millet and I finished our first run-through of the list of passengers,” she told him. “We still have about a hundred whose flights fit at least one of the murders. We’re examining passenger descriptions and backgrounds and flight itineraries. Hopefully, we’ll knock it below fifty tomorrow.”
He opened his eyes and nodded. “Good. What’s the latest on the violent agents and military personnel?”
She reached over and casually touched his thigh. “It came in midday.” She moved her hand and took another sip of her wine. “We eliminated a whole bunch based on their confirmed postings on the dates of the murders. We hung onto the information on the ones we threw out on appearance, just in case we later get a different description.”
“That sounds like progress. I told the country we were making some.” He let the empty glass dangle from his fingertips, and closed his eyes.
“Had you ever done a press conference before?”
Even tired as he was, he enjoyed being with her. Just sharing his weariness helped.
“No,” he admitted. “I hope the press gives me a break. But I doubt that’ll happen. I put one of them on the spot.”
“You mean Eric Dunn?” Rachel laughed. “The TV camera showed a lot of faces. They were all giggling. I think you made your point, then pulled back and showed humility by apologizing. At the end even Dunn appeared to think it was funny.”
“Sal Ramirez from CNN hit the nail on the head,” Jack said, yawning. “The Garfields are dead because I made an error.”
“That’s bull,” she said, kicking off her shoes. “Damn it, Jack. You are not responsible for protective surveillance—the president left that to the agencies.”
She was right. Still, Jack said, “I should have thought of the nominees.”
She halted her glass in midair. “Now listen here, Mr. McCall.”
“So we’re back to Mr. McCall, are we?”
“For the moment, yes, you are not the entire government, Mr. McCall, and you are not in charge of everything associated with LW. You told the president that others could become targets. The killing of the Garfields is tragic, but you are not responsible and you can’t afford the distraction that comes with carrying the blame.”
“You’re right,” he told her. Then yawned again. “But I can’t help wondering what else I’m missing?”
“Sleep, Jack. You’re missing sleep.” She took his hand and pulled him up from the couch, walked him into her bedroom, and pushed him onto her bed. “You’re in no condition to drive home. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The last thought he remembered was hoping they would do this again, under better circumstances. When there was not a protective squad outside.
CHAPTER 30
Meet Jack McCall, a direct and capable American agent.
—Eric Dunn, freelance columnist, June 15
Jack woke at four and after a moment of confusion realized he was in Rachel Johnstone’s bed. Alone. He thought about his evening with her and somewhere in those thoughts Wee Willie snapped to attention and took on its secret identity, Sir William.
Next time, he thought, damn the regulations. Sir William is a nobleman and his orders must be obeyed.
Last night he had skipped his nightly bout with insomnia, never even thought about it. And this morning he felt more rested than he could remember. He pulled the covers up to his neck, clamping them down with intertwined fingers, and stared at a lithograph of a home in the mountains hanging on the wall across from the foot of Rachel’s bed.
The aroma of fresh coffee entered the room ahead of Rachel, a cup in her hand, steam rising from it.
“Good morning,” she said bubbly. “I took the liberty of going to your place last night to get your dopp kit and a fresh change of clothes. I know it was a bit forward of me, but I wanted to let you sleep as late as possible. Don’t worry. I called my protective detail and one of them went with me. I hope you approve of what I picked out.”
He reached out and took her hand. “You didn’t need to do that, but, well, the sleep was great. Thanks.”
“Breakfast in forty minutes,” she told him.
After she’d left, he cradled the hot coffee in both hands, absorbing its warmth. For a moment he felt like a man in one of those stories where the couple lives happily ever after. But in a little while he and Rachel would be putting happiness aside to continue their efforts to stop some lunatic hell-bent on putting America on tilt.
He had known what Rachel had on her mind last night, and what had been on the mind of Sir William, but the moment she had brought in the coffee, Jack knew last night had turned out right. Still, that realization didn’t make him smile.
He put his face in the pillow and inhaled Rachel’s fragrance, then showered and got dressed. On the way to the kitchen he s
aw a blanket folded on her couch.
“You didn’t need to give up your bed. I could’ve slept out—”
“Are you feeling comfortable with me right now?” she interrupted.
Her tone of voice sounded a warning that told Jack what would follow would not be as pleasant as the soft fragrance of her pillow.
“Because I wanted to kick your ass last night after watching your press conference. You challenged LW. You insulted him. His father. His cause. The kindest word I can think of to describe your actions is foolish.”
He broke the yoke in his egg with the corner of a piece of toast. “He might not have even been watching?”
“Don’t patronize me, Mr. McCall.”
So, we’re back to that, again.
“Even if LW didn’t see it live, your comments have been rerun all morning on all the news and talk programs,” she told him. “You knew the networks would do that. You called him out and don’t try to pretend you didn’t.”
“We need him to make a mistake, okay,” Jack said somewhat defensively. “Nessy, angered him—”
“You knew Nesbit pretty well, didn’t you?”
“We were friends for fifteen years, in some tight spots together. I was trying to say, Nessy made LW mad and he lost his operational discipline. I want to do the same thing. Knock him off his plan again. Get LW to focus on me. Maybe that’ll make him more vulnerable.”
“That could also make you a target.”
She picked at her breakfast while Jack finished his eggs, smearing the yoke puddle with his last piece of toast, and washing it down with the rest of his coffee.
My God. We’re doing morning after stuff without the night before. Sir William, next time you’re in charge.
A little after six, Jack and Rachel walked into the Bullpen to find that the others had already arrived. A minute later Lana Kindar brought in one of her proprietary coffee blends and pastries, fresh strawberries, and sliced mangoes. Nessy had been with Jack and Colin when they had saved Lana and Zaro. Before leaving, the old woman cradled Jack’s face in the palm of her open hand. Her coarse skin felt as warm as her smile.
