by John Weisman
Could Ed Howard’s photos have been doctored? Obviously the answer was yes. And so, while they gave Sam a leg up, they weren’t absolute proof that the two staffers were dirty. He’d need to make that determination on his own.
Sam looked up to see the Pines of Florence, a neighborhood Italian restaurant, on his right. It was almost as if he’d gotten there by osmosis. His strides were confident and regular, his breathing easy, even with the strain of the long climb behind him. The soreness from Paris was leeching out of his body, molecule by molecule. By next week, it would disappear completely.
A car passed him, moving slowly, its DC plates disappearing into the darkness. What wouldn’t disappear was the doubt that gnawed at Sam’s brain. Everything was all too simple, too neat. And there was something else: SCARAB and SCEPTRE were low-level agents. They were disposables.
If Edward Lee Howard had truly been a double—if he’d really been Bill Casey’s Alec Leamas—he’d have been dispatched to uncover more important moles than SCEPTRE and SCARAB. He’d have been sent to find out who’d blown America’s top Russian agents. Howard’s defection had taken place three years after he’d been fired by the Agency. That had given the Soviets plenty of time to check his background; three years for Moscow Center to verify his motives. It was a hugely complex and risky operation. Still, it was also exactly the sort of high-risk, high-return op Bill Casey had grown up with in OSS. Casey had precisely the sort of personality to put Ed Howard into play to steal Moscow’s crown jewels—the identities of its top American moles. But Valentin Klimov was also devious. It was altogether possible for him to leak disinformation about Howard so he could double the American defector back at the United States. Sam snorted frosty white smoke from his nostrils. Christ—no wonder they called it the Wilderness of Mirrors.
As Sam crossed the wide intersection opposite the courthouse, he could see two other foul-weather joggers coming north out of the darkness, running with the tight precision of military personnel. Sam flashed a wave as they crossed Wilson. They returned his greeting and formed up perhaps a hundred and fifty yards behind him.
Sam’s breathing was regular. His stride easy. Okay: let’s pursue the double-agent scenario. SCARAB and SCEPTRE were disposables. That was undeniable.
Then whom had Ed Howard locked on to? That was the question. Because Howard had been killed in order to silence him. So had Ed’s Russian wife Irina. And Alexei Semonov. There was something missing here; something Sam couldn’t see.
And yet … and yet … Sam was convinced that Howard’s actions were somehow a message. A message intended for him—just for Sam. Just like the message concealed in the seat stub. Breaking the code of the seat stub had been easy. But what the hell else had Howard been trying to tell him?
Sam sensed the runners behind him moving up. He glanced around, saw they were within a hundred and fifty yards, and increased his pace slightly.
Sam liked this route. It was easy to gauge the distance he’d run, because just like in Washington, the street names ran alphabetically. He’d just crossed Edgewood and was on his way to Fillmore when the two runners behind him really closed the gap. It was funny how he could discern their approach—as if they were pushing energy waves ahead of themselves. He sped up slightly to keep his distance.
Sixty yards ahead, two more early-morning runners emerged from the next street. They started toward him—way too fast to be joggers. That’s when all the bells and whistles went off in Sam’s head. He glanced behind him. The men trailing him were a chase team—and they were within ninety yards now, and closing fast. Ten yards ahead, Sam saw an alley between a Latino grocery and a pizza joint. He sprinted for it.
He ducked into the alley. Ahead, in the orange glow of sodium security lights, the asphalt dead-ended at a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence topped by barbed wire. Parallel to the fence line, a second alley led to Fillmore Street. Sam looked around wildly. To his left were half a dozen filled-to-the-brim garbage cans. To his right was an industrial-size trash container filled with construction crap. Sam ran past the huge bin. Its top was open. As he slid on the snowy macadam, he halted just long enough to grab at a three-foot length of two-by-four sticking out of the shoulder-high bin. He snatched, missed the damn thing, slipped on ice, found his footing, and went for it again.
Sam’s gloved hand closed tight on the plank—right atop an exposed nail. He screamed and pulled his impaled hand away. The lumber clattered to the ground. Sam went down on hands and knees and finally came up with it.
There was no time to think about pain. He looked up to see the second pair of joggers lurch into the alley. Except they weren’t joggers. One was a big black guy in a knit cap, a red ski jacket, and sweatpants—he had some kind of sap or baton in his hand. The other was a white guy. He wore a knit cap, too. And a black-and-silver Oakland Raiders parka, and jeans. He was holding something, too.
Holy mother of God, it was a stun gun. A big, evil-looking thing with two silver prongs. Sam saw the device as the dude came in low, his face contorted in a grimace, his body exuding—bizarrely, it struck Sam at the time, given the situation—a spicy, floral odor. The guy must have bathed in cologne.
Shards of boot camp thrust through his panic, shock, and fear. Sam tried for a War Face. He screamed at the top of his lungs the primeval, throaty howl that the Gunnys had embedded in his subconscious.
“Argghhh!” From his knees, Sam swung the two-by-four as hard as he could. He connected. The big nail bit into Oakland’s leg just at the knee, and he screamed and went down, the stun gun skittering under the trash container.
Down but not out—as he collapsed, Oakland took a roundhouse swing at Sam’s head.
Sam recoiled rearward. He smashed the back of his head against the trash bin and saw stars. Everything went black and white. But he never let go of the makeshift club. He screamed obscenities again, ripped the nail out of Oakland dude’s leg—“Die, motherfucker”—and swatted the downed attacker’s head. Home fucking run. Oakland dropped with a thud and an “ungh.”
Movement on his left. Red Jacket came at him, his right arm outstretched, something in his hand. Sam rolled out of the way, tried to put one of the garbage cans between himself and the guy, but Red Jacket was a big guy—pumped and lean. Big as a house. He kicked the garbage can out of the way and went for Sam.
Something wet caught Sam’s face. Pepper spray. Sam’s arm instinctively went up, protecting his eyes. But some of the hot stuff was already running down his forehead, into his eyes, blinding him.
Sam backpedaled. Then he remembered what the Gunnys had told him. Never retreat. When ambushed, counterambush. He screamed and reversed course, swinging the two-by-four wildly. Red Jacket stopped, then backed away, fumbling in his pocket with his right hand, while his left, extended, sprayed liquid at Sam.
Sam’s eyes stung like hell. But he never stopped swinging the club, forcing his attacker to keep his distance.
The pepper spray ran dry. Red Jacket looked at the canister and said, “Oh, shit.”
That was when Sam screamed and charged him. He swung the two-by-four like a baseball bat at Red Jacket’s shoulder. The big guy caught the lumber with a bare hand, stopping Sam’s swing cold. Then he screamed like a wounded animal. In the orange light Sam could see where the nail had gone clear through Red Jacket’s hand.
Red Jacket looked at his bloody hand and his eyes went crazy. He jerked his other hand out of his jacket, yanked—and two-handed, pulled the two-by-four out of Sam’s grasp.
Red Jacket flung the club away then turned to face Sam, fury in his eyes. From his left, Sam heard growling. He looked around to see that Oakland Raider was on all fours, scrambling to reach the stun gun under the trash bin.
Sam grabbed a garbage-can lid, whirled, and smashed the back of Oakland Raider’s head with the edge of metal disk, sending him face-first into the steel wall of the trash bin. Oakland went down.
That’s when Red Jacket tackled Sam. Took them both down onto the snowy alley.
He was strong—and Sam was having problems seeing through the pepper spray. A fist caught the side of Sam’s head and stunned him. Sam’s feet weren’t working properly. Red Jacket’s legs were wrapping around his legs and he couldn’t move. The guy was a grappler. Sam caught an elbow in his gut and all the breath went out of him.
And then, suddenly, Red Jacket was yanked off Sam and thrown into the wall. He dropped like he’d been shot. The dude just collapsed. Sam looked up and saw the other two joggers—the chase team.
But they weren’t a chase team. In fact, from the white-walled, buffed-from-the-weight-pile look of them they were a pair of Soldiers from Fort Meyer—maybe Tomb of the Unknowns guard detail—out for their daily PT. Sam focused on the closest Soldier. He was holding a collapsible baton next to his leg.
Sam rolled onto his hands and knees. And then, his teary eyes unable to make out much, he sagged to the asphalt, hyperventilating.
The rearmost soldier came up and knelt next to him. “You okay, Pops?”
“My eyes. They used pepper spray.”
The Soldier rolled Sam onto his back and cupped his head with an arm. “Open your eyes.”
Sam struggled to follow the man’s instructions.
“Good.” A stream of cold water washed Sam’s eyes.
“It’s bottled water. It’s clean. Don’t worry. Keep blinking. Let it wash your eyes out.”
Sam did as he was told. The relief was instantaneous.
“Pete—” The Soldier paused. “Gimme your water.”
“You got it.”
More cold water washed over Sam’s forehead and eyes.
Sam’s vision came back. He raised his hand to his eyes. But the Soldier caught it. “Don’t rub—you’ll just make everything worse, okay?”
“Okay.” Sam bobbed his head up and down. He tried to catch his breath but was having a hard time. He flexed his right hand. It was sore as hell, but he’d deal with it later. He struggled to get to his feet, but the Soldier just pushed him back gently. “Give it a second or two, Pops.”
Finally, Sam pulled himself up. He made his way to the Oakland Raider, rolled him over, and searched for ID. The man didn’t even have a wallet. But he was carrying a roll of duct tape in his Raiders jacket pocket. And a small canister of pepper spray. Sam checked for tattoos or other identifying marks. He found nothing on Oakland’s arms. But when he checked the man’s legs he discovered a chunky semiautomatic pistol in an ankle holster.
Sam extracted the weapon, handling it gingerly. The taller of the two Soldiers took it from Sam’s hand, pointed the muzzle in a safe direction, dropped the magazine, and then racked the slide. A loaded round popped out of the chamber. The Soldier caught it with his left hand and examined the bullet. He whistled. ‘Ten-mil. This guy meant business.”
Sam went to Red Jacket and ran his hands over the unconscious man’s clothes. He came up with a single car key— which he palmed before anyone saw it—and a spring-loaded leather sap. Sam slapped his left palm with the weapon. Nasty. No identifying marks or jailhouse tattoos on Red Jacket either.
The attackers were sterile. No papers. No IDs. There was something maddeningly, naggingly, familiar about Red Jacket, but this was no time to try to sort it out. There was a key that was currently burning a hole in Sam’s pocket.
Sam stood up. “I gotta go.”
The Soldier with the baton snapped the device closed and replaced it in his anorak. He pulled a cell phone out and offered it to Sam. “What about the police?”
“No police—please,” Sam said quickly.
The second Soldier hefted the pistol they’d taken from Oakland Raider. “But he had a gun.” He looked at Sam imploringly. “We’re MPs, Pops. We gotta call the police.”
“Please.” Sam looked at the confused expressions on the young Soldiers’ faces. “Please,” he said again. “All I can tell you is this is code-word stuff. I can’t explain. But no police—not until I’m gone.”
The two Soldiers looked at each other, then back at Sam. Finally, the Soldier with the baton shrugged. “Your call, Pops.” He paused. “You want some help getting home?”
Sam leaned against the trash container. Obfuscate. Leave a false trail. “Nah—I can manage. I was on the final leg—I live a block and a half from here.” He looked at the two dubious youngsters. “But thanks,” he said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you guys hadn’t come along.”
Sam backed out of the alley. He scampered to the corner of Fillmore and turned right. Red Jacket and Oakland Raider had come from this direction. That meant they’d left their car close by. They’d probably been tracking him to make sure he was taking his regular route. Then they’d driven ahead, stopped, and waited for him to show.
5:48 A.M. Sam walked in the middle of the street, careful not to leave footprints. There were no parked cars within fifty feet of the intersection. He pressed on, walking quickly through an intersection, looking at the cars down the side street. All of them were dusted with snow. But there—just past the streetlight—was one that wasn’t. Sam jogged up to the car. It was a big, black four-door sedan. A Crown Vic with Washington, D.C., plates.
Sam put his hand on the Crown Vic’s hood. The metal was warm to the touch. He pulled on the door. It was locked. Just above the door lock was a keypad that would unlatch the driver’s side door. Sam used his teeth to pull the glove on his right hand off. He used the key he’d taken from Red Jacket and opened the door. Then he put the glove back on and wiped the key on his leg. No need to leave any telltale fingerprints or blood for anyone to track.
There was no interior light. Sam slid behind the wheel, pulled the door closed, and used his elbow to lock it. He thrust the key into the ignition. His first impulse was to drive away. But then he thought better of it. Moving the car would only confirm that he’d found his attackers’ vehicle—and increase the danger quotient.
Who were these guys? Sam felt under the front seat. His fingers found a wallet, which he retrieved and dropped onto his lap. He reached again and came back with a semiautomatic pistol in a black Kydex paddle holster.
He slid the pistol back under the seat and searched the passenger side, where he discovered a second wallet. Quickly, he opened the wallets one by one and went through their contents, squinting to read the fine print in the semidarkness. Red Jacket’s driver’s license identified him as Desmond Reese. He was thirty-six, and he lived in southeast Washington. Oakland Raider was Larry Johnson, thirty-four, of Bowie, Maryland. The half-dozen government-printed busi- ness cards in each wallet told Sam they were members of the U.S. Capitol police’s Protective Services Bureau. Sergeant Larry Johnson, a member of the 82nd Airborne Association, was in the Protective Intelligence Division, and Sergeant Desmond Reese, who carried a VFW membership card, served in the Dignitary Protection Division.
Inside the hidden compartment of Reese’s wallet was a folded piece of note paper. Sam eased it open. The letterhead read: SELECT COMMITTEE ON INTELLIGENCE.
The sheet was hand-lettered with a series of numbers and letters.
211:42428
211-CH: 88329
211-B/S: 84-11-95-01
211-A: 92391
Sam shook his head; 211 was the suite number for the SSCI committee offices in the Hart Senate Office Building. Obviously, Reese kept a list of cipher-lock combinations to some of the offices in case of emergency. You had to wonder who taught these people about security. He reached atop the driver’s side sun visor and found a ballpoint pen, which he used to copy the door-lock combinations on the back of one of Reese’s business cards. He replaced the pen, refolded the sheet of paper, and slipped it back exactly where he’d found it, copied both men’s vital statistics on the back of a second business card, and replaced the two wallets under the front seat where he’d found them.
5:51 A.M. He searched for the trunk release, found it, popped the Crown Vic’s trunk, slipped into the cold, and checked.
There was a police radio in the trunk. But that wasn’t al
l. A black tarp lay folded. Half a dozen clear, thin, plastic bags— the kind you get at dry cleaners—were crumpled next to it. There was a roll of black duct tape and a coil of wire. And there were also four cinder blocks. Sam reached down and hefted one. It weighed twenty pounds at least.
It would have been so easy for them. They’d have knocked Sam out with the stun gun. They’d get the car, toss him in the trunk, duct tape his mouth and nostrils, then slip a couple of the plastic bags over his head. Then there’d be more duct tape. They’d wrap him in the tarp. They’d use more duct tape. They’d attach the cinder blocks. They’d drive to a bridge and toss him over the rail or carry him down an embankment and roll him into a canal. Sayonara, Sam—poká.
And then, standing there, shivering in the cold, Sam realized where he’d seen Red Jacket before.
He’d seen him in the pea-gravel driveway of Rand Arthur’s house in Round Hill. Red Jacket had been one of the plainclothes Capitol police officers guarding Rand’s estate.
Sam looked down at the cinder blocks and the plastic clothing bags and started to shake. Then he got control of himself. He eased the trunk shut and returned to the front of the big car. He checked the glove compartment—it was empty except for a pack of chewing gum. Then he reached around to make sure he hadn’t overlooked anything. He hadn’t: the rear carpet area and the backseat were bare.
5:53 A.M. Sam left the ignition key on the floor next to the brake pedal, hoping Reese and Johnson would assume they’d dropped it. He locked the car from the inside, slammed the driver’s side door shut, and tested to make sure it had latched tight. As he walked away from the Crown Vic, he could hear the crescendo of approaching sirens on Wilson Boulevard.
CHAPTER 26
6:24 A.M. Sam sat in his living room, a cold cup of coffee at his elbow, sorting the situation out as best he could. He’d been targeted. Someone had sent two men to kill him—police officers.
