Executive Order (Reeder and Rogers Thriller)

by Max Allan Collins

  What other explanation was there, for some unknown party in government intentionally disobeying the orders of the President of the United States? If pawns were needed, why not send less competent agents, to accomplish the same goal?

  The answer was obvious: using more clearly expendable people—a mix of inexperienced rookies and burned-out operatives—might have raised troubling red-flag questions. On the other hand, top-flight agents, lost on a mission, would only fan the flames more.

  And somebody wanted a conflagration.

  After letting his secretary know that he’d be mostly out of pocket for an unspecified period, Reeder left to take a meeting scheduled at Langley. The stone wall at the Agency had gone up fast and high, but thanks to the direct intervention of the President himself, CIA Director Richard Shaley had made himself available this afternoon for a one-on-one meeting. Imagine that.

  The Director was seated behind his desk when a male secretary ushered Reeder in. The large office was a study in cherrywood, its rich walls sparsely decorated, almost surprisingly so, although a large framed American flag under glass rode one of the walls, as did the CIA emblem. Reeder was shown to one of two oversize rust-colored, well-padded visitor chairs.

  Behind the Director and on the right side wall were floor-to-ceiling windows whose blinds were semi-shut, providing a surreal view of the Langley campus. The massive, carved mahogany desk—its glass top free of anything but a banker’s lamp and two fancy pens in holders—was of another era; but then of course so was Shaley.

  An angled ceiling light shone down on the CIA chief, bathing him in an almost divine glow but not reflecting off his mostly bald dome. Meanwhile, the lighting on the guest side of the desk was about the wattage of your average garage door opener. The arrangement was rather obviously meant to intimidate, and Reeder supposed it worked a good deal of the time, particularly with subordinates.

  But Reeder didn’t work here, and in any case didn’t intimidate easily.

  The Director was on the phone. His side of the conversation was “yes,” “no,” and finally, “See that you do.” No state secrets were shared.

  When Shaley had hung up, he said, “What is it you want, Mr. Reeder? The President asked me to squeeze you in, and I’ve done so. But I encourage you not to waste my time—as you may have heard, I’m not one to suffer fools.”

  “Then you’ll be relieved to hear I’m no fool,” Reeder said. “For example, when I sink down into a well-stuffed chair like this, I know it’s not for my comfort but about putting you at a higher level.”

  The Director sat back and folded his arms. “I have you scheduled for fifteen minutes, Mr. Reeder, and then I have important things to get to.”

  Reeder crossed his legs but left his arms unfolded. “Fine. Let’s start with whether you’ve accomplished what the President requested of you this morning—do we know who sent your people . . . our people . . . to their deaths?”

  “If I knew, Mr. Reeder, I’d have reported as much to the President, and you wouldn’t be here.” His eyes were hooded behind the wire-frame glasses, his mouth an expressionless line. “So what’s the function of this visit? Are you running point for the White House? My understanding is that you are out of government.”

  “I’m here, Director Shaley, because—like you—I serve at the pleasure of the President.”

  The Director’s gaze was cool, but Reeder could tell the man was boiling. “Mr. Reeder, I don’t care to be hounded. I have a duty to perform and I’m doing it. It would seem to me your presence here is a sort of . . . veiled threat from the President. Meaning neither him nor you any disrespect, I assure you I know how to do my job.”

  Reeder didn’t let any irritation come to the surface. All those years standing post with the President paid off at times like this.

  He said, “Meaning you no disrespect, Director Shaley, I have a job to do, too—again, at the bidding of the President. Call it running point if you like. I see it more as fact-finding, and passing along whatever information you may find . . . or have found.”

  Tiny eyes flared large behind the lenses. “It sounds as if the President is asking me to report to you—a civilian.”

  “If it helps, think of me as a consultant to the FBI—a liaison between two great government agencies.”

  Shaley shifted in his black tufted-leather chair; maybe it was ergonomic, too. “I’ve personally checked all the deployment orders for McMann’s team.”

  “And you’ve found . . . ?”

  “Just that those orders were routed through the encrypted in-house e-mail of every single senior agent, including myself.”

  “But who sent it?”

  Shaley looked suddenly very small behind the big desk—one of the most powerful men in government, facing a situation that seemed almost certain to end his career.

  “According to our top computer techs,” he said, “all of us did.”

  Reeder mulled it a few moments. Then: “Was somebody just covering his trail? Or is this a statement someone is making? A message that makes you out to be the very kind of fool you don’t suffer?”

  If the grandfatherly figure was offended by that, it didn’t show. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” he admitted.

  “Let’s come at this from another angle. Who working in the Company might see a benefit from starting a war with Russia? Motivation, monetary or political.”

  Shaley shrugged, sighed deep. “Again, I have no idea. You say you’re on a fact-finding mission. Well, that’s all we do here. Apolitically. Our job is to try to know what our potential adversaries in this precarious world are up to. When we’re at war, our job shifts, in a way gets easier. Whoever is shooting at our people, that’s the adversary.”

  “Does narrow it down,” Reeder said.

  “No one here I know of stands to benefit directly,” Shaley said. “Not unless they’ve been bought.”

  “There’s another possibility.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “I said ‘monetary or political.’ This could be somebody with a political agenda who has infiltrated your agency—acting either for himself or as someone’s agent.”

  The Director’s eyes narrowed to slits, and there was nothing grandfatherly in his tone now. “Whichever is the case,” he said, “we will find that traitor, and I intend to deal with him in my own way.”

  Reeder held up a cautionary palm. “Not to tell you how to do your job, but I’d keep in mind that your infiltrator will have valuable knowledge. So you might hold off on terminating this party with the customary extreme prejudice.”

  Shaley nodded. “I will keep that in mind. Now, Mr. Reeder—if you don’t mind . . . as you might imagine . . . I have things to do.”

  Nodding, rising, Reeder said, “I might be able to help you, Director. I have some very good computer techs at ABC, and I also have access to the best computer man at the FBI.”

  Shaley gave up a mirthless laugh. “Even if I wanted to, Mr. Reeder, I couldn’t give you access to internal CIA computer records. And if you had a court order, you know I’d only give you so much horseshit.”

  “I know,” Reeder said, grinning, “but it never hurts to ask.”

  The slightest smile traced Shaley’s lips. “Joe . . . if I might . . . I respect you—you’re a genuine American hero. For all I know, you may just be window dressing in Harrison’s effort to make this mess go away . . . but this is our screwup, the Agency’s . . . and we’ll fix it.”

  “Okay, Dick . . .” Reeder could be familiar, too. “. . . but four of your people are dead, and already were before you even knew they were in the field.”

  Shaley said nothing. His eyes were tight, and his hands were fists. And here they’d just started getting along . . .

  “I’m just saying, Mr. Director, if you need me, call. Maybe I can do you a favor . . . like help to see your place in history isn’t how you paved the way for World War III.”

  Leonard Chamberlain and Reeder went back a couple of decades. Graying n
ow, soft around the middle, Chamberlain had been called back to Langley and retired to the elephant’s graveyard of desk jobs. Back in the day, Chamberlain had been a top field agent, especially during his stint in Eastern Europe; but a stray bullet in Bosnia had ended that part of Chamberlain’s career and left him with paperwork and a limp.

  Back in DC, Reeder pulled into a convenience store parking lot and got out his cell, scrolling down to Chamberlain in his contacts. He’d considered trying to see his friend while at Langley, but thought better of it. If they met, it should be on Reeder’s turf.

  The CIA agent picked up on the fourth ring. “Human Resources, Chamberlain.”

  “Since when are you human?”

  “Hi, Joe.”

  “You can guess why I’m calling, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know anything?”

  “I might.”

  “Can you be a little more vague?”

  “Given where I am right now, is this something you want to discuss on an open cell signal?”

  “Best not. Where and when can we talk then?”

  “Remind me. Where was that place Superman used to go to chill out?”

  “North Pole.”

  “I’ll meet you there in an hour. Dress warm. And keep a sharp lookout for polar bears—the few that escaped climate change.”

  His old friend was referring to Arlington National Cemetery, Reeder’s own personal Fortress of Solitude.

  “Will do, Len. And touch base where?”

  “Main Street,” Chamberlain said.

  Main Gate.

  “See you there,” Reeder said.

  In the convenience store, Reeder got himself a bottle of water and, back in the car, sat and sipped at it. His friend knew something or they wouldn’t be meeting.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, he thought. Might be nothing.

  But if so, why the precautions?

  He was about to start the car when his cell trilled—ROGERS in the caller ID.

  She said, “I’ve got some news on the Yellich thing.”

  “Good.”

  “Maybe not . . . but it does indicate you were right.”

  A wave of something bordering on nausea swept through him—he was pleased she’d found something, but . . . had Amanda been murdered? Really murdered?

  She filled him in about taking down Glenn Willard, making an accidental major dope bust, and following up with the sandwich shop owner and his daughter.

  “So,” Rogers said, “it’s evident that your friend’s death is a homicide. But much more than that, we don’t know. Our delivery boy is still unconscious. Lost a lot of blood. And the substitute delivery boy we have no line on. So—how was your day?”

  He told her about it, holding nothing back—he rarely did, with Patti.

  “So,” she said, “you’re consulting for the President now.”

  “Yeah, I’m big shit. Hey, I may need to borrow Miggie, if you can arrange it.”

  “Given who you’re working for, I don’t see a lot of trouble with that.”

  “Patti, it can’t be common knowledge who my new boss is.”

  “Then maybe we shouldn’t talk about it over an un-secure line. As soon as Hardesy and I are able to interview Willard, I’ll get back to you.”

  “That’s a loop I need to be kept in,” he said, thanked her, then clicked off.

  As he drove the short distance to Arlington, Reeder couldn’t help but wonder: Who the hell would want Amanda Yellich dead? Secretaries of the Interior didn’t normally make the kind of enemies who wanted them permanently gone. He was still mulling that when he parked in the parking lot near the Arlington Cemetery metro stop.

  Chamberlain had been circumspect on the phone and Reeder expected the veteran agent would act the same way in getting here. Taking public transportation, most likely, where you could spot or shake a tail more easily than in a car.

  Reeder walked across the street to the main entrance of Arlington National Cemetery. A frequent visitor for years, he had requested and received free access to the cemetery as his only perk for taking that bullet for President Bennett. In the years since, he had spent part of almost every single day here, usually early mornings before the public had entry. When he was after serenity, this is where he came.

  Today, the cemetery would provide not only serenity, but security, keeping him and Chamberlain at a good distance from listening devices or prying ears.

  Reeder looked back toward the metro station, then checked his watch. He figured Chamberlain should be coming up the stairs any time now.

  Then almost as if Reeder had willed it, Chamberlain stepped out of the shadows of the station and onto the sidewalk. The two men made eye contact, but gave no greeting, no indication at all of recognition. Reeder, in fact, stepped back into the shadow of a nearby evergreen.

  Chamberlain started across the street, his limp even more pronounced than Reeder remembered—time hadn’t been a friend to the man, who also looked heavier since their last get-together. The CIA agent was about halfway across the street when a black GMC crossover sped east on Memorial Avenue, gaining momentum, engine roaring, the vehicle bearing down like a big ebony bullet.

  Chamberlain saw it, too, and tried to get out of the way . . .

  “Len!”

  . . . but his bad leg wasn’t having any.

  Reeder came running out onto the sidewalk by the main entrance, his hand instinctively slapping his hip where the gun he no longer carried used to be.

  The car hit Chamberlain hard on the left side and propelled him like a man shot from a cannon, the already broken body smacking off the roof of the car as it flew by; bouncing off, the agent landed on the pavement with a sickening squish, and it would have hurt like hell if he’d still been alive.

  In the middle of the street now, Reeder tried to catch the license plate number, as the vehicle squealed off toward George Washington Memorial Parkway; but the GMC had no plates—not surprising. He’d seen a driver and a passenger as the killing car blurred by, but he got a good look at neither, though they appeared to be male.

  Several citizens were already on their cells calling 911, so Reeder didn’t bother. Instead he got out his phone and punched in Rogers’ number. She didn’t pick up.

  He wove his way into the street through the small crowd of gawkers and finally stopped for a look down at the twisted, broken thing that just minutes ago had been Leonard Chamberlain. The man’s skull was smashed, exposing part of the brain that had held information meant for Reeder.

  He stood there staring down at his dead friend, his fists clenching and unclenching, making a promise to the dead man, though Reeder’s face gave nothing away—he’d trained it not to. But within him motors were turning and guts were churning.

  Someone was monitoring Reeder’s calls—someone who knew enough about him to see through the Fortress of Solitude reference that translated to Arlington National Cemetery. Someone who’d sent assassins to wait for them when they tried to meet.

  Assassins who might have taken Reeder down, too, if Chamberlain hadn’t provided such an easy target.

  Or maybe not.

  Reeder knew that the hit-and-run slaying of a national hero—however much that designation might annoy and irritate him—would attract much more attention than the “accidental” death of a washed-up CIA agent . . . from the media, from the cops, even from the government . . .

  Still, the longer this went, the deeper the shit got, and the more likely Reeder himself would become a target. He needed at least to make sure he wasn’t an easy one.

  Sirens sang their banshee song as he got in his Prius, with no intention of dealing with cops. He would throw away his cell, but not until he had another. Even if someone was tracking him, he didn’t want to be cut off from the world.

  Back on the other side of the Potomac, he drove past the Navy Yard and parked across from a two-story brick building on Tenth, just off M Street. The pawnshop and tailor still occupied the first floor
, but Reeder wasn’t here to hock something or to buy a new suit, either.

  DeMarcus Shannon, who lived and worked out of the second-floor loft, was a purveyor of products for buyers who wished both anonymity and discretion. The catch was that his business was cash only, but his customers preferred it that way, too.

  After making sure the neighborhood seemed clear of surveillance—or black cars that might take a sudden run at him—Reeder headed across and climbed the metal stairs on the north side of the building. When he got to the fire-escape-style landing, he was greeted by a steel door and a video camera.

  After some pissing and moaning from a seller who got nervous when the buyer was a cop of sorts, Reeder handed two hundred in twenties through the cracked-open door, and two cell phones were passed out to him. Then DeMarcus opened the door a little wider.

  He was a slender, shaved-headed African American who looked younger than his thirty-some years; maybe it was the Washington Wizards warm-ups.

  DeMarcus eyed Reeder warily. “You got yourself in the shit again?”

  “Only waist-high, so far. Still . . . probably wouldn’t hurt if you took a long weekend out of town.”

  The seller’s eyes and nostrils flared like a rearing horse’s. “I knew I shouldn’t do bidness with you!”

  Reeder got another hundred out, then a hundred more, and handed the bills over. Then he passed the phones back to the seller. “Put your number in both of ’em. I’ll call you when it’s safe.”

  As DeMarcus added a number to the contacts list of each cell, he asked, “What if you don’t call?”

  Reeder said, “If I don’t call, I’ll be dead, and it won’t matter.”

  Back in the car, Reeder called Rogers. Again she didn’t pick up but he left the new number. He started up the Prius.

  He had people to warn.

  “No man is worth his salt who is not ready at all times to risk his well-being, to risk his body, to risk his life, in a great cause.”