Executive Order (Reeder and Rogers Thriller)

by Max Allan Collins

  Rogers said, “It eventually came out.”

  “Decades later. Special Agent Rogers, that’s the kind of thinking the Alliance depends on. You think they don’t, they couldn’t, exist—so they don’t exist. In fact, the Alliance teaches its recruits that if someone accuses them, simply laugh it off, using your line of conspiracies-are-nonsense logic.”

  Reeder could see Rogers still wasn’t buying it, and he said to her, quietly, “Nonsense, not necessarily. Skull and Bones, the Bilderberg Group, the Freemasons, the Ku Klux Klan—secret societies, one and all.”

  She gave Reeder a hint of a smirk. “What next—the Illuminati?”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “You’ve heard about these secret societies, you might even think you know something about them . . . but can you name a single member? Tell me their goals? Explain their infrastructure? We guess, but we don’t know, because . . . they’re secret. The Alliance could be the same kind of thing.”

  Rogers was frowning. “In this day and age?”

  Their prisoner joined in the conversation again. “The Alliance began as a response to the Cuban Revolution in 1959.”

  That surprised even Reeder.

  Morris said, “Recall your history, and the Bay of Pigs? Run in part by the budding Alliance. Kennedy took all the heat when it went south, but that was the first action taken by the American Patriots Alliance.”

  Reeder said, “To what end?”

  Looking at Reeder as if that were a question more worthy of a child, Morris said, “To keep America free of Communism, back in the day. Now? Now, the goal is to restore America’s greatness. To put the power back in the hands of the people who know how to properly run things.”

  Frowning, Wade said, “You mean white people?”

  Reeder was shaking his head. “Your loyalty, Lawrence, is to an Alliance playing very dangerous games with Russia. You really think a third world war, in the nuclear age, will make America great again? And if the Russians get all the portillium out of Azbekistan, they’ll have weapon-making capabilities beyond the imagination.”

  The accountant’s expression revealed doubt breaking through the rote history lesson drilled into him by his masters.

  Rogers asked, “Who is on the board, Lawrence?”

  “Even if I gave you the handful of names I do know, it wouldn’t do you any good. They are too well entrenched, with their followers spread throughout every level of government. The Alliance is everywhere. You think you can protect me when you can’t even protect yourselves. Already they have one of yours.”

  “Who you will help us get back.”

  “In exchange for what—protective custody? I wouldn’t last an hour. Hand me over to your FBI friends or the CIA to get information out of me, and see how long it takes for you to get the phone call that I had a heart attack in the earliest stages of interrogation.”

  Reeder said, “Your people will trade for you.”

  “Will they? Or, once they know I’ve been captured, will they just kill me, too? I’ll be tainted, understand? Sacrifice, remember? You, Agent Rogers, and your whole team, will be eliminated. Mr. Reeder, you’ll merely have your life destroyed, your family dead and yourself possibly in prison. That suicide you encouraged last year could easily become a murder.”

  Rogers looked at Reeder in alarm.

  Reeder, coldly, said to their prisoner, “Then maybe it’s in our best interest for you just to disappear into that hole in the ground.”

  “If you kill me, they will find you, all of you, and kill you.”

  “Big talk from such a small cog.”

  His upper lip peeled back over his teeth in a rictus smile. “You think you’re up against a small cadre of the powerful, but in reality there are thousands of us in government—department heads, middle management, worker bees—a grass roots army working to save America from itself.”

  “Okay,” Reeder said, “then just give us that handful of names you do know, and we’ll release you. No one the wiser. You can’t betray us without betraying yourself, right?”

  “Those names, those few names, are my only leverage. I give them to you, maybe I do wind up in the forest. But . . . if you let me go, I will—as you say—have to keep my mouth shut to save my own skin. And if you people just drop all this, and go about your business, it will all be over in a matter of days.”

  Morris meant that the country would either be at war or not.

  “If we go head-to-head with Russia,” Reeder said, “we might all be over.”

  Morris said, “I’m sure the President will have done the right thing by then.”

  That gave Reeder a sudden chill—did Morris know some big-picture thing that they didn’t? Did the cog know where the wheel planned to roll?

  Miggie, who’d been working at DeMarcus’s desk in the office area, caught Reeder’s attention with a wave.

  “Give him something to drink,” Reeder told Wade, standing, nodding toward the captive. “If he needs a bathroom break, walk him down there.”

  “I’ll have to untie him,” Wade said. “He could piss in a bottle or something.”

  Reeder shook his head. “We’ve got plenty of duct tape.”

  Morris was listening to all this with the hangdog expression of the captive that he was.

  Reeder and Rogers went over to Miggie, who looked up from his tablet at them in frustration. They spoke low.

  “Something?” Reeder asked.

  “Someone,” Miggie said, and his eyes went to Rogers. “Fisk. She’s wondering why we seem to’ve dropped off the edge of the world.”

  “Shit,” Rogers said.

  Reeder frowned at Mig. “She contacted us how?”

  “She didn’t exactly contact us. I hacked my work e-mail, where she sent me a memo. Seems Ivanek’s checked in with her, and Bohannon, too . . . but she hasn’t heard from the rest of the team and that’s making her nervous.”

  Amused despite the situation, Rogers asked, “You hacked your own e-mail?”

  Shrugging, Miggie said, “You guys tell me be careful, I’m careful.”

  She asked, “Can we get back to Fisk and not give ourselves away?”

  “You don’t trust her?” Miggie asked.

  “I barely trust myself.”

  Reeder reached for a shelf and came back with another of DeMarcus’s untraceable burner phones; handed it to Rogers. “Get her on this, Patti. Best not mention our guest.”

  “You think?”

  With a dry chuckle, Rogers headed out onto the landing and shut the door behind her.

  Reeder sat on the edge of the desk and asked Miggie, “Fisk say anything else about Ivanek?”

  “Just that he checked in.”

  “How about Bohannon?”

  “Just that he said everything was cool. Jerry knows enough not to tell the AD he’s been sitting surveillance for us on Ivanek’s place . . . but whether he and Trevor have connected, I got no idea.”

  Reeder let out a big sigh. “Our communication system leaves something to be desired.”

  “Burner phones are better than tin cans and string,” Miggie said, “but just. Hey, when you wanna go sub rosa, things get harder. I did get a text from Jerry, though, on my burner.”

  “And?”

  “He’s been looking hard at Secretary Yellich. You told him and Wade to look for anything odd, remember?”

  “And?”

  Miggie handed his phone over. “And read this.”

  Reeder did: *AY not CD*

  “What’s this mean?” he asked the computer expert.

  “No clue.”

  Reeder curled fingers at Wade, who was duct-taping Morris back into the kitchen chair after a bathroom break. The big man came over and Reeder showed him the message on the burner.

  “He’s your partner, Reg—what do you make of this?”

  Wade read it, shook his head. “Typical Bohannon shorthand shit. Maybe a third of the time I have to ask him what the hell he means. ‘AY’ is probably Amanda Yellich.”

>   Miggie said, “I texted him for clarification but haven’t heard back yet.”

  Reeder turned toward the nearby door. “Isn’t Patti done yet?”

  Miggie glanced at the clock on his tablet. “It’s been a good five minutes, anyway.”

  Reeder went outside, found the landing empty, and something cold traveled through him. From the top of the stairs, he quickly scanned the area, saw nothing and no one, then rattled down the metal stairs and started for Tenth Street.

  Muttering, he walked at a hurried pace, hand over the butt of the nine mil in his waistband, and when he got to the corner, he turned it and about ran headlong into Rogers coming the other way.

  “What the hell?” she asked, backing away.

  He let out a breath. “Sorry. Panicked a little—worried you’d been gone too long.”

  “It’s nice to know you care. But after I talked to Fisk, I figured I’d better ditch the phone.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “Burial at sea.”

  The Anacostia River ran past the Navy Yard, with access to the water just to the west.

  They started back.

  He asked her, “What did Fisk say?”

  “Ivanek’s at his desk at the Hoover Building. We’ll leave him there, until we know where everybody is.”

  “Ignorance is bliss, I guess. And Bohannon?”

  “He’s headed back to the Hoover, too, she says.”

  They were at the stairs now, and started up.

  “So,” Reeder said, “for now we leave them on the bench.”

  “For now,” she said.

  They went inside. Miggie was at his tablet, Wade guarding the prisoner, who gestured to Reeder with an up-and-down motion of his head.

  Reeder walked over and planted himself before the captive. “What?”

  The accountant’s smile was a joyless thing, but it was there.

  “I have a suggestion,” he said.

  “It is difficult for the common good to prevail against the intense concentration of those who have a special interest, especially if the decisions are made behind locked doors.”

  Jimmy Carter, thirty-ninth President of the United States of America. Served 1977–1981. Recipient of the 2002 Nobel Peace Prize for his contributions with the Carter Center.

  FOURTEEN

  Patti Rogers joined Reeder who, hands on hips, stood before their taped-in-a-kitchen-chair prisoner.

  Sweat beaded Morris’s forehead, though it wasn’t particularly hot in the loft apartment. Fear practically radiated off the accountant. Rogers knew the feeling—even the captors here were in a tight, untenable place.

  Reeder said, “I’m listening.”

  Morris swallowed and the earnestness he summoned was almost painful to see. “I wasn’t there when your agent was taken. But I have a good idea where she’s being held.”

  “Still listening,” Reeder said.

  “Then . . . we have a deal?”

  “A deal?”

  Morris nodded; sweat flew. “I tell you where I think she’s being held, and you let me go. You do that because if I were to tell my people I’d been captured, they might consider me compromised, and that could be fatal.”

  “You give us an address,” Reeder said, a faint smile tracing his lips, “and we let you walk? That it? After all, you acted in good faith.”

  “Yes!”

  “No,” Reeder and Rogers answered as one.

  “Then . . . then what incentive is there for me to help you? And please don’t insult any of our intelligence by racking that weapon and threatening me with a hole in the ground. I think we’re past that.”

  Rogers said, “Are we?”

  Reeder resumed his seat in the chair that faced the captive. “Here’s how this is going to play out. You tell us where you think they have Agent Nichols. We go check it out. If we don’t die in the attempt, and actually free her, we return to discuss your future.”

  “What . . . what kind of future?”

  Rogers said, “You’ll be lucky to have any. Seven Americans have died already.”

  Morris summoned an air of confidence, though he was trembling. “That’s what I mean—you consider me a traitor. From my point of view, I’m a patriot. What I propose is that if you’re successful in your rescue, we all go our separate ways, no harm, no foul.”

  This coming from a man taped in a kitchen chair.

  Reeder said, “That’s a possible outcome.”

  Rogers would have rather thrown this excuse for a human down those fire-escape stairs, chair and all. But she would follow Reeder’s lead.

  “Where?” Reeder asked.

  “Burke. Burke, Virginia. It’s . . . kind of out of the way.”

  “What makes you think she’s there?”

  Morris relaxed within his bonds; he seemed assured of the information he was about to share.

  “I was given the task,” he said, “of pinpointing government safe houses that are seldom in use. That was a part of my normal work for the GAO—looking for properties that could be sold off by agencies that no longer used them. One of these was a house the ATF used in Burke. 124 Jennings Circle.”

  Rogers recorded that on her phone.

  Morris went on: “The ATF hasn’t used it in over three years. The neighbors were getting suspicious, which often compromises a safe-house location. Anyway, I sent that message up the Alliance chain.”

  “Sounds to me,” Reeder said, “like you might be handling any number of former safe houses.”

  “That’s true,” Morris admitted. “But the house in Burke was not only the most recent example, it inspired a number of follow-up questions. Something was obviously being planned for that address—my guess? Holding your agent there is it.”

  Rogers traded looks with Reeder—despite the People Reader’s usual blank expression, she could tell he found this promising. So did she. Of course, what else did they have . . .

  “We’ll check it out,” Reeder said.

  “And if you get your friend back?”

  “Then we’ll talk.”

  “We have a deal, remember.”

  “One thing at a time.”

  Rogers put the blindfold back on Morris.

  “Aw, come on!” the prisoner said.

  She said, “Hush,” and walked away.

  They gathered around Miggie. His tablet had some vintage Latin music going, which he cranked to keep their already hushed conversation private.

  “Any word from Bohannon?” Reeder asked.

  Miggie shook his head.

  Reeder spoke to Rogers: “Nichols is your agent who’s gone missing. Take the lead.”

  Rogers nodded and said, “All right—Joe and I will check out the safe house in Burke. With any luck, we’ll extricate Anne. Miggie, you keep digging. Reggie, watch the prisoner. We’ll keep you posted by cell. If we go dark longer than, say, four hours, take the charming Lawrence to Fisk and make a clean breast of it.”

  Wade frowned. “I rather dump him on the street and make noises about how he gave up his crew.”

  Reeder said, “No. If Rogers, Nichols, and I are casualties, our play is over. Letting the Bureau handle it is the better part of valor.”

  Rogers shook her head at Reeder. “Joe, our new best friend over there says every sector of government is infiltrated. That would include the FBI.”

  But Reeder’s answer went to Wade. “That’s why you’ll need to turn Lawrence over in as public and showy a way as possible. Preempt a cover-up. Go to the Post and give an interview. Contact every 24-hour news channel. Got it?”

  The big man sighed big. “I got it. But why don’t you just bring Anne back instead?”

  Everybody agreed that was the best idea.

  Rogers touched Reeder’s arm. “Let me say good-bye to Kevin.”

  “Sure.”

  She went back to the bedroom, letting herself in as quietly as possible. The room was just beginning to lighten, the only window allowing in the first hints of sunris
e.

  Kevin, in dark shirt and slacks, was on the made bed on his side, asleep maybe.

  She crept in, shut the door behind her. “You awake?”

  He smiled up at her. “Still awake. Can’t sleep. Maybe I should have taken my nylons off.”

  She almost succeeded in not laughing.

  “Okay,” he admitted, “maybe it is a little funny.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, found his hand. “Thank you for what you did tonight.”

  “I kind of enjoyed it. Nice to know I can fool a straight guy like that, not just be some camp oddity.”

  “But you’re a straight guy—kind of.”

  “And you’re a straight girl—sort of.”

  “Made for each other,” she said, and leaned in and kissed him a little. He sat up and kissed her more.

  Then she put her hand in his short dark curly hair and said, “Now I need you to do what you were going to before this sting came up—disappear for a while.”

  He sat up even more. “I’d rather hang, and help. I proved I can do that, right?”

  “No proof necessary. You’re all man.”

  “Except maybe for the nylons.”

  “And the eyeliner.”

  “That, too. So you want rid of me?”

  “Just till the guns are gone. Just till having you around doesn’t worry me and make me lose my edge. You need to doll up and get Virginia Plain’s pretty behind out of here. Catch a cab. Grab a bus. I don’t want to know where you’re headed.”

  “I’ve got that phone Reeder gave me. You’ll call?”

  “I’ll call.”

  She touched his face, so handsome, so pretty, and gave him a smooch and got out of there. She didn’t need her eyeliner getting spoiled, too.

  An hour later, the sun edging up, Rogers—with Reeder in the rider’s seat—drove the rental car to the far end of Jennings Circle in Burke, then turned around in the cul-de-sac and eased back the way she’d come. The rental had out-of-state plates, making her just a driver (should anyone notice) who’d taken a wrong turn. She rolled past the house a second time, slow as she dared, before turning off Jennings Circle and back onto Old Keene Mill Road.