by Jake Devlin
"It could happen.”
Jake chuckled. "Not bad, Chel, not bad at all; I'll add that to the repertoire. And thanks; that did help.”
"It's the beta-endorphins. Hang in there, Jake."
"Will do. Thanks again, Chel." Jake went back to his notebook, but kept checking the door and the steps.
At about 4:30, Jake saw a tall woman coming through the indoor restaurant, in loose khaki bermuda shorts, a baggy shortsleeved sweatshirt and a large black hat covering all of her hair, carrying a big beach bag. She was shambling along and wearing those big wraparound sunglasses people get after cataract surgery, and it took Jake a moment to see through her disguise and recognize Pam. He could also tell she was exercising good tradecraft, unobtrusively alert to her surroundings. When she came through the door out to the tiki hut and looked his way, he waved and she came over and sat in the chair beside him, setting her sunglasses on the table.
"Okay, Secret Service lady, what the hell is going on?"
"Shh, Jake; keep your voice down. I'll tell you everything I know. But not here; we're being watched."
"No, we're not; I checked."
"Not well enough. See those two girls at that table over there? They were on the beach this morning."
"Yeah, they were. But I know them; they're regulars. I think their names are, uh, Carie and … um … Jill, I think. They're okay."
"Are you sure? They look like pros to me."
"Pros? Nah, just some cutesy young kids; been on the beach for three or four months. And I'm sure they saw you talking with me and heard you tell the sergeant you were Secret Service. And Sergeant Dooley interviewed them as witnesses, I'm pretty sure."
Pam paused, then said, "Okay, but I'm gonna keep an eye on 'em."
"Fine. Now, lady, what the hell is going on? Why all the Marines this morning? And what was with that gorilla head?"
"The gorilla head, I have no idea. But I was totally against having the Marines along. That was all my boss's idea."
"So are you really Secret Service?"
"This morning, yes, but as of this afternoon, I'm on suspension. He's just CYAing."
"Who is?"
"My boss, Chaney."
"Dick Cheney, the ex-VP?"
"No, Randy Chaney, who set up that whole op this morning."
"Wait a minute; let's back up. Just start at the beginning and tell me what happened this morning and what's so urgent now."
"Okay."
"And what was that about some national security issue?"
"Okay. I don't know for sure how it happened, but your name came up as a possible security risk, and my boss tasked me with checking you out. But I'd already been looking at your website and the speech you had up there, and I was intrigued, and I made those suggestions and then you and I got into that first email exchange. And that was long before I got tasked."
"Yup; I looked back at those first emails this afternoon. And the second round, too; but there the tone had changed a bit."
"That was after I got tasked -- you know, I think that was probably after you put up the first bit about the assassin, and maybe the NSA computers flagged it then."
"NSA? Seriously?"
"Well, I'd guess that word would trigger something. In fact, I'm sure it did."
"Maybe because it was near the President's name?"
"Maybe -- no, I'd say probably."
"Hmm."
"Now, I don't know exactly where the order came from, but it got to me from my boss, Chaney, so that's all I have. But he's a lot more political than I am, kind of a suck-up, so it may have come from the political people in the White House.”
“Geez. Because of an innocuous, stupid little novel?”
"Well, you gotta admit that some of the stuff you have Donne proposing could be pretty controversial.”
"Well, yeah, but that's mostly for the assassination plots.”
Just then, Chelsea came over and asked Pam, “Can I get you something, hon?”
Pam smiled up at her and said, “Just some ice water, please.”
“Lemon in it?”
“Sure; thanks.”
"Coming right up. Anything else, Jake?”
"Sure, I'll have another, Chel.”
"Be right back.”
"You come here a lot?” Pam asked.
"Yeah, I guess so.” Jake paused a moment, looked closely at Pam and said, “Is your name really Pamela?"
"Yes, it is. Really."
"Last name?"
"Robertson-Brooks. But I just go by Brooks usually.”
"Robertson-Brooks? Married?"
"Widowed. Want to see ID? I don't have my badge anymore."
"Sure."
"Okay." Pam dug into her bag, pulled out a wallet, extracted a Virginia driver's license and showed it to Jake.
"Satisfied?"
"Okay -- wait a minute. You were born in '61?"
"Yup, July 29th."
"You really do not look that old. But go on. You were saying your boss is political and he ordered you to --”
"Tasked me to check you out."
"Tasked you; okay.”
"Well, that whole email exchange of ours led me to the conclusion that you were no security risk, but Chaney insisted that I meet you face to face and ... well, he wanted me to interrogate you. And then he insisted that the Marines go with me. Like I said, overkill. And I objected, told him I could do it alone. But he overruled me and ordered them along; he even drew a diagram of where he wanted them in the sand."
"And that got your Marine killed.”
"Right. And now he's trying to blame me for that. So he had me suspended pending the outcome of an investigation.”
"Geez, what an asshole.”
"Got that right, Jake. At least I put my objections in writing and they're logged.”
"That's good.”
"I can handle that. But I emailed you because he's gonna want to justify himself, and that means he might be coming after you to prove that you are a security risk.”
"What? Because of a silly little piece of fiction?”
"Yup; you can't believe the ego this guy has, and he's got to save face. That's part of why I wanted to get together with you now.”
"Oh, geez.”
"To warn you.”
"Oh, geez.”
At that point, Chelsea returned with their glasses, put them down, looked at Jake and asked, “You okay, Jake?”
"Yeah, Chel, fine, fine,” he choked out, taking a big sip of his water.
"Okay, hon. You need anything, just let me know.”
"I will; thanks, Chel.” As Chelsea went back into the restaurant, Jake pulled out a cigarette and lit it, his hands trembling.
"Geez, Pam, you've got me paranoid. Now I'm even wondering about them.” He gestured subtly toward the Mimosa twins, who were looking at a cell phone and giggling loudly.
Pam glanced over at the twins, shrugged and said, “Like I said, they look like pros to me, and pretty skilled at hiding it.”
"Oh, geez. I've been thinking of them as just cute little sun bunnies.”
"Well, I could be wrong, Jake, but I don't think so. I can tell you they're not with us.”
"Us?”
"Secret Service. Could be FBI … or CIA … or somebody else.”
"CIA? Oh, geez. But they're so young.”
"Some agents look even younger.”
Jake took another puff of his cigarette and coughed deeply, then took a big gulp of his water and started coughing even harder. Pam reached over and patted his back, but that didn't help; he kept coughing.
The Mimosa twins looked over, concerned looks on both their faces. Carie (or was it Jill?) dug in their beach bag, took out a box of cough drops and held it up, offering it to Jake. He shook his head, but steepled his hands in front of his face and nodded his thanks, still coughing.
Pam, who had been digging in her bag at the same time, pulled out an identical box, offered it to Jake, who looked at her suspiciously, until she shook
one out into her hand and put it in her own mouth. Then he accepted one and popped it in. He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and took a small sip of his water, and his coughing gradually subsided.
"You gonna be okay, Jake?”
"Just went down the wrong pipe, I think. Geez. Sorry.”
“Don't worry about it. Happens to me sometimes, too. That's why I always carry these with me.”
"They DO work, but, god, they taste awful.”
"You get used to them. Here, keep these; I've got more in my car.”
"You sure?”
"Yup, no problem.”
"Thanks – wait. No little high-tech tracking device in there, right?”
Pam crossed her heart and smiled. “Nope; I promise.”
"No eavesdropping … ah … thingie?”
"Thingie? Nope, no listening device, either. Nothing like that.”
"You have got me paranoid now – but what about that DS380/17 in your sunglasses?”
"Chaney insisted on that. It recorded everything, video and audio. And I made a copy for myself before I gave it to him. Like I said, you're off the hook as far as I'm concerned. But how did you know about that? It's supposed to be classified.”
Jake shrugged, glanced over at the Mimosa twins, who were back to giggling with their cell phones, then said, “I don't think so. I read a lot of defense and spy stuff … research, you know; Donne will have assassins and surveillance people after him … and that little device was very clever. I don't remember just where I read about it, though.”
"Hmm. Maybe I'm wrong. Okay.”
"You said you made a copy. Can I get a copy of that?”
"Oh, Jake, I can't. I've probably already told you too much. Maybe when my suspension is over … or when I retire. And with what's going on right now, I'm gonna do that as soon as I hit 50 next month; I've got enough time in and I've just about had it with all the BS and the egos.”
"Like your boss.” Jake shivered.
"Yeah. He's been hitting on me for years and he's pissed 'cause I've rejected him each and every time, even filed a few complaints, but nothing's ever come of them. He's too well connected.”
"What an asshole.”
"Absolutely. Lots of them around … in every agency, too.”
"Lots of 'em out in the civilian world, too.”
"Yeah.”
"But with the way you look, I would guess you get hit on a lot.”
Pam shrugged and sighed. “Yeah, it happens.”
Jake took a small sip of his water, coughed once, and then said, tentatively, “Can I make an admission?”
"Sure.” Pam looked at him expectantly.
"When I first saw you, the very first thought that crossed my mind was – well, actually the second; I'm always concerned about some other author or publisher ripping off my idea – was that you might be setting me up for a honey trap.”
Pam blanched. “Wh- – why would you think that?”
"First, no wedding ring, and then look at you, look at me. Women that look like you don't just come up to guys that look like me and are as old as I am … well, unless they're looking for a sugar daddy.”
"I'm not looking for that; promise. But a honey trap?”
"Well, it sorta was, wasn't it?”
Pam took a sip of her water, ran her fingers through her hair, and finally said, “I – I guess you could see it that way. And I'm sure my boss would think that way, too. But it wasn't like that in my mind; looks aren't everything. I just wanted to prove that you were not a risk. Really.”
Jake looked closely at Pam, frowning in concentration as he scrutinized her face, and said, “Look me in the eyes and tell me that again, okay?”
“Okay.” Pam looked directly at Jake and said, “I just wanted to prove that you were not a security risk.” She paused. “Really.”
Jake, after a brief pause, said, “Okay. I believe you.”
Pam sighed and smiled. “I'm glad.”
“Or maybe they taught you how to lie really well in the CIA.”
“How did you – oh, shit.”
“Just a shot in the dark, Pam. And I'm sorry for that. But I had to know.”
“That was a long time ago, Jake. I've been with the Secret Service since '93.”
“And how long with the Company before that?”
“You know I can't discuss that, Jake.”
“Or you'd have to kill me?”
“That's just a bad movie cliché.”
“Whew.”
“Of course, it's true.”
“What?”
“Kidding, Jake, just kidding. Gotcha.”
“Oh, geez, Pam. My nerves are on edge enough right now.”
“Sorry; really. But you set that up so nicely, I just couldn't resist.”
“Geez.”
Jake pulled out another cigarette, but just fiddled with it for a moment, then put it back in the pack, took a deep breath and sighed.
“So, Pam, seriously, how much danger am I in from your boss and his cohorts?”
“I don't know for sure, Jake. He's a devious sonofabitch and he can manipulate the government in all kinds of ways to get at you.”
“Like how?”
“Shhh. What's this?” She looked up as Chelsea approached their table with a small piece of paper in her hand.
“What's up, Chel?” Jake asked.
“Sorry to intrude, Jake, ma'am, but some guy asked me to give this to you.” Jake reached out and accepted the paper from her.
“Okay; thanks, Chel.”
As Chelsea returned into the restaurant, Jake looked at the paper, then read it to Pam. “Search the internet for 'Jesse Jackson Al Sharpton Extortion' and for 'Sinclair Young Obama Murder.' Wonder what that's about.”
Pam leaned in to Jake, dropped her voice and said, “Oh, Jake, you don't want to touch that second one. It's a VERY dangerous subject.”
“What? Why?”
“Take my word for it. You'd be in a lot more danger, and not only from my boss.”
“Me? More? Geez … wait a minute. Don't we have free speech in this country?”
Pam shook her head. “Oh, Jake, you are so naive. Politics is a LOT dirtier than anyone, even you, could imagine. People die and disappear.”
“Oh, geez.” Jake dropped his face into his hands. “So what now? I should get one of those long-handled mirrors to check for bombs under my car? Get a remote control to start it? Put a heavy-duty security system in my house? Video cameras? Hire a bunch of bodyguards to watch my back wherever I go? Maybe a sniper on the roof of the condos across the street from the beach? Anti-aircraft guns?”
“I don't think you need to go that far, but if I were you, I sure would NOT do anything with these,” Pam said, tapping the paper, “and I'd sure keep an eye out for anything that looks at all hinky.”
Jake dropped his voice to a whisper. “Like the twins over there?”
“Yup, like that.”
“Oh, geez.”
“One idea. When you're doing that stretching thing on the beach, looking for upwind umbrellas, you should also pay more attention to the people you see, especially if they seem out of place or hinky.”
“I can do that, I think.”
“Look, Jake, you're a nice guy and I like you, but I'm afraid you may get in way over your head if you're not careful.”
“So I need to be paranoid?”
“Well, not really paranoid, just a lot more cautious.”
“Watch my six, huh?”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe I can do that. Thanks.”
Pam dug into her bag, pulled out a business card and wrote a number on the back.
“Here, Jake. You've got my email, but if you run into anything or just want to talk, here's my cell number. Call me, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I've got to get back to DC, see how I can fight Chaney on this.”
She reached for her sunglasses and started to get up, but Jake said, “Wait a second. Let m
e give you my number, too. No cell, but I've got voicemail.” He wrote a number on a page from his tiny notebook and gave it to Pam.
“Thanks, Jake. No cell phone? Really?”
“Nope; never bothered with that.”
“Wow. Maybe you are that old … oh, sorry.”
“No problem; I'm used to it.”
“Okay. Now you take care, okay?” Pam leaned over and gave Jake a quick peck on the cheek, gave his shoulder a quick squeeze, then stood up, smiled, glanced at the Mimosa twins and left. The twins seemed not to notice her, as Chelsea was setting large sandwiches in front of them.
“Okay,” Jake said to Pam's receding backside as she opened the door into the restaurant. Then he pulled his notebook out of his shirt pocket, wrote “BS and ego,” put the notebook back, looked over at the Mimosa twins, saw that Chelsea was still talking with them, sipped the last of his water, put a ten on the table and got up. He caught Chelsea's eye, pointed to the table and waved goodbye.
Carefully checking his surroundings, Jake headed toward the restaurant's door, but instead of going inside, he turned left into the atrium in the center of the tower, saw it was empty and headed in.
He pulled out the box of cough drops Pam had given him, popped another one in his mouth and started to put the box back in his pocket. Then he held it up close and looked it over from all angles, shook it a few times and palmed it.
When he got to where he could see his car, parked on the north side of the building, away from the restaurant's front entrance, he noticed an old pickup truck parked a couple of spaces away, between him and his car. He held up for a moment, looking around carefully, then used his remote to start the car. He then jogged through the drizzle, passing the pickup, unobtrusively dropped the cough drop box in the bed, got into his own car and headed out.
But instead of heading straight home, he took a left from Forester, drove east to the closest convenience store, where he bought a few boxes of cough drops, then drove randomly around several blocks in Bonita Shores for a few minutes, keeping an eye on his rearview mirror, and when he saw no one following him, turned west on Bonita Beach Road and headed home.
-17-
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
9:15 a.m.
Bonita Springs, Florida
On the Tuesday of Donne's first press conference, commuters awoke to a series of freshly painted decorations in the right-hand lanes of Bonita Beach Road, eastbound and westbound, repeated approximately every mile between I-75 and the beach.
