by Gayle Lynds
"I'm leaving right now." Olsen clicked the OFF button. Sweat dripped from his forehead. "He's given me a different drop-off place—at the foot of the statue in the Jefferson Memorial." He described it in greater detail.
Now Jeff knew everything he needed—the time and place of the assassination, and a way to find Berianov. He spun on his heel and headed for the kitchen. "I've got to call my boss."
"Bobby Kelsey?" Beth followed. "You're going to warn him about the Rose Garden and the invitations?"
"Yes. Now we know place and approximate time," Jeff said grimly. "I'm going to handle the invitations myself. Whoever picks them up will lead me to Berianov. I'll drop them off, and then I'll get Berianov. He's mine."
"No. He's mine, too. Ours. I'm part of this, too, dammit!"
He hardly heard her. He wanted to keep Olsen's cell phone free, in case Berianov called again. So he snatched the telephone receiver off the kitchen wall and dialed his boss's secret number. He waited for the fake fax squeal to end and left Olsen's phone number and the agreed-upon message: The sky is coming down in flames. It was a risk to stay here and wait, because if anyone had put a tracer on Bobby Kelsey's line, they would know by now the phone number from which he had dialed and the address where the phone was located. The dangerous scenario he had described earlier to Beth about why he had not wanted to go in yet still held true, but now he had firm information, and he had to take the risk. The president's life was at stake.
He looked at Beth and sighed, thinking about Ty. "Sorry."
"It's okay, Jeff. I know how hard it is to lose people you love."
She wrapped her arms around his chest, and he let her hold him. But his mind was on Bobby Kelsey. He wanted the phone to ring.
45
The abandoned ruins of what had once been an elegant townhouse was just one more of a hundred other old, crumbling brick buildings in Southeast Washington. Litter marred the dark street, and graffiti scarred the blackened walls. Most of the street lights had been shot out. That night as they did every night, drug dealers and pimps plied their ancient trades openly. But in the derelict townhouse, none of that mattered. The group of men and women who were working in the various rooms had more important matters on their minds.
Sergeant Aaron Austin had roused the Keepers from fitful sleeps less than a half-hour before. As the bulk of the zealots prepared their weapons and gear, Austin conferred on final plans with the three other members of his personal team. Together, the four-man unit would enter the White House grounds using the invitations secured from Evans Olsen. It was Sergeant Austin himself who would have the privilege of assassinating America's traitorous president, James Emmet Stevens.
Austin was once more going over each phase of the operation in detail, completely focused, when all the townhouse's doors and windows burst open with thunderous crashes, feet pounded upstairs and through hallways, and ear-splitting commands boomed from bullhorns.
"Drop your weapons! This is the FBI!"
"Secret Service! Stand where you are! Raise your hands! Now!"
"You're surrounded. Put down your weapons and come out single file!"
Whatever their assigned tasks, the stunned Keepers stopped, paralyzed, their scared, angry eyes focused on each other. In the living room, where he had been consulting with his men, Sergeant Austin never hesitated. He gave a sharp nod, and his bellow sounded so loudly that he could be heard throughout the entire building: "Do it!" His jaw moved, and he collapsed. From one floor to the next, room after room, in dying testament to their fanaticism and brainwashed discipline, the other Keepers obediently followed his—and Colonel Bates's—orders.
Max Bitsche stepped out of his headquarters trailer at the rear of the large mobile-home park just off the parkway that joined Washington to Dulles International Airport. His company of support troops who would supply and transport the assassination team and its security guards to West Virginia were leaving their trailers to fall in before him. Pallid and hunched in the dawn, Bitsche had never felt more alive. In his detail-obsessed existence, he had never dared to dream he would stand before a company of hard men as their leader, ready to take them on a great and sacred mission.
He made his voice commanding, "Fall in, soldiers!"
The Keepers were still dressing their ranks when the police cars and military vehicles roared into the trailer camp, beacons flashing, and SWAT teams and soldiers poured out to surround the startled fanatics.
The bullhorns boomed, "Freeze! You're all under arrest."
Terrified, Max Bitsche wavered.
A voice trembled from the ranks. "Oh, God, we're caught!"
Max Bitsche closed his eyes, his skinny body shaking. He summoned his nerve, focused on his dreams for a better world, and screamed, "Do it!" He bit down. He never saw the others writhing in the dirt as the police and soldiers, their weapons slowly lowering, stared in stunned horror.
The warehouse was the third in a row of warehouses behind the buildings of a light industrial park in Arlington, Virginia. When the cars carrying the Virginia police and the FBI, all in SWAT gear, screeched to a stop in front, two men burst out of the south side of the warehouse, carrying weapons. Their eyes and body language said it all: They intended to escape.
"They're wearing the belts!" the officer in charge of the tracking unit shouted.
Four FBI men raced after them, finally cornering the pair in a cul-desac against the high wall of a railroad embankment. Otis Odet and a man later identified as Jesse Crabtree, a parolee from the Texas state prison at Huntsville, tried to shoot it out. They lost.
In the otherwise empty warehouse, the Virginia police and FBI found sleeping bags, weapons, and twenty-four people who had died painfully from what looked like self-administered cyanide. Oddly, despite the contorted features, there was a look of peace in many of the open, staring eyes.
Bobby Kelsey watched the teams of special agents and Secret Service carry the bodies of the Keepers out of the crumbling building in Southeast Washington, shaking his head in admiration. Damn, but Berianov was good. The general really knew how to pick his people and train and motivate them. The reports from the other teams showed that only two of the zealots had tried to escape, and even they went down in a shootout rather than surrender. Hell, that crazy throwback general might pull this off yet, take over Russia, and give Kelsey an even sweeter life than he already had.
He turned to follow the last of his agents out when his cell phone sounded. "Yes?"
It was the office. "You have an urgent message, sir. On the secure line."
"What is it?"
" 'The sky is coming down in flames.' "
Bobby Kelsey gave a tight smile. That was Jeffrey Hammond's code, and it had come in on the highly secure, clandestine line with rotating numbers assigned to undercover agents and those on top-secret missions. "You have the location?"
"Yes, sir. The caller is dialing from a private residence in the Northeast section." She recited the telephone number and address.
He said neutrally, "Got it."
Bobby Kelsey severed the connection. There could be only one reason Hammond had contacted him—he wanted to meet. Which told him everything he needed to know. He slipped his cell phone back into its case and barked orders.
In Evans Olsen's cottage, Beth poured a cup of coffee. "Here, drink this, Jeff. And for God's sake, sit down. Try to relax. You look as if you're going to detonate."
From his broad face with the heavy cheekbones to his naked chest and tight jeans, Jeff radiated outrage and menace. He shook his short-cropped head as if to clear it. He grabbed the steaming cup and stalked across the old linoleum and returned. He had work to do, and Bobby Kelsey was taking a long time to return his phone call. He was frustrated and angry.
He stopped in front of Olsen. "How tall are you? Six feet?"
"Six-two," Olsen said indignantly.
Jeff nodded, assessing him. "You don't stand up straight. You're bigger around the middle than I am. I'm going to take one o
f your jackets."
"Now, just a minute—"
But Jeff was already heading away. In the bedroom he and Beth had shared, he put on his blue work shirt and tucked it into his jeans. He left behind his herringbone jacket and the windbreaker he had taken off the dead Keeper in Pennsylvania and went into Olsen's bedroom, where he found a flannel shirt. As he shoved his arms into the sleeves, he heard Beth shout from the living room.
"Jeff, come here!"
"Oh, God," Olsen was moaning. "This is so terrible. All those poor people."
Jeff hurried into the living room, where Beth and Olsen were staring riveted at the television set. The network newscaster was reporting that police agencies led by the FBI and the Secret Service had made a series of raids on a fringe group called the Keepers of the Truth en masse earlier this morning. The clandestine band had apparently been planning some kind of terrorist act, but authorities would say at this time only that they were investigating. All the Keepers had killed themselves. Coming on the heels of the murders of Senator Ty Crocker and FBI director Thomas Earle Horn, it was one more shocking incident that reaffirmed the capital's violent underbelly.
As the nation watched appalled, images of sixty-two dead bodies, stashes of arms, military-style clothing, and state-of-the-art communications equipment were displayed. A spokesman conjectured that if the group had planned to commit an act of violence, the members must have memorized their roles . . . or perhaps there was a master blueprint somewhere yet to be found.
The meetings of presidents Stevens and Putin today at the White House dropped in prominence from the headlines, now something of an afterthought following the morning's tragedy. No one mentioned President Putin's invitation to sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom, but live coverage of the press conference in the Rose Garden was still scheduled.
"Unbelievable," Beth said. She had a sick feeling in her stomach. "Those poor people. Berianov took advantage of them. Maybe they wouldn't have turned to violence if he hadn't led them."
"He's got a lot to answer for." Jeff nodded somberly. "But so does our society and its perverted frontier mentality. The only good thing is the Keepers have been stopped. But we've still got to get Berianov."
"You don't think it's over now that his followers are dead?" Beth asked.
"Not if I know Berianov." He glanced at his watch. "Damm it, we're losing time. What's taking Bobby so long to call back?"
Eli Kirkhart parked his rented Chrysler on the litter-strewn, graffiti-marked street in Southeast Washington. Ambulances were lined up in front of the derelict townhouse, and teams of agents were carrying out corpses in body bags. He had heard the shocking news the moment he stepped into the lobby of the Hoover building and had immediately found out to which site Bobby Kelsey and his team had been sent.
All the way down from Pennsylvania, driving fast in the dark, predawn hours, he had pondered the evidence that had pointed to Jeff Hammond. Because of it, he had originally been convinced Jeff was the mole. Where had he gone wrong? How? Finally, as the sun rose in a golden shower over the Potomac, the answer came to him. So simple that it made him groan aloud. What a fool he had been. . . . What if instead of the director himself, Jeff's FBI handler had been the chief of the last division for which he had worked—Bobby Kelsey?
Kirkhart drummed his fingers on the steering wheel with excitement. All the evidence that pointed to Jeff could also point to Bobby Kelsey. Had the director realized that, too? Kirkhart thought it likely. He could see where the director might not have been utterly convinced he was right about Bobby Kelsey, but at the same time he would have wanted the Bureau to uncover its own traitor. He would have told himself it was a matter of institutional pride, while in truth it was nothing but personal vanity. Which meant the director might have been arrogant enough to confront Bobby alone. With backup, of course, but probably too far away to see or hear a knife attack.
Yes, it was logical that Bobby Kelsey was the mole. But this time Kirkhart had to be sure, because he had been wrong about Jeff, and he was determined to not be wrong again. Besides, one did not lightly accuse FBI assistant directors of being double agents. Since Aida had died, the Bureau had been the core of Kirkhart's life, really all he had left, and just thinking about jeopardizing his career any more than he already had made his stomach weak. No, he would do nothing until he could conclusively prove Bobby Kelsey was the mole.
Kirkhart climbed out of his car and ducked under the yellow plastic Crime Scene tape. He could not find Bobby and figured he must still be in the townhouse. As he headed for the entrance, he spotted off to his left, just inside an alley, Bobby's graying red hair. Bobby Kelsey was talking and gesturing to a group of five agents. Kirkhart recognized two from the Bureau's criminal division plus Chuck Graham and Steve Thoma from Bobby's own national-security division. The fifth man he did not know.
As Kirkhart watched, Bobby drew his Smith 10, checked the clip, and reholstered it. Graham and one of the criminal division agents carried M-16 assault rifles.
Kirkhart studied them. It almost seemed as if Bobby were organizing a team for some operation. The six men split into two groups and headed for separate FBI cars. Thoma came Kirkhart's way. He appeared fired up.
Kirkhart said, "Steve, old buddy. What's up?"
"It's Hammond! Bobby knows where the bastard asshole is hiding. We're going to pick him up."
"So? Interesting. I'd like to be in on that."
"Sure. Ask Bobby."
Kirkhart thought quickly. If he were right that Bobby Kelsey was Jeff's handler, then Bobby could know exactly where Jeff was if Jeff had called to report in or to ask for help. He had serious doubts Bobby intended simply to arrest Jeff.
He approached Bobby. "Sir, I missed the operation here with the Keepers. I'd appreciate being able to at least help you out with Hammond."
"You're Kirkhart, right? You used to be pretty close to Hammond, right?"
"Yessir," Kirkhart said and grimaced. "Too damned close."
Bobby nodded. Kirkhart could be useful if they had to talk Jeff out into the open. "Okay, sure. Grab a rifle. You can ride with Thoma."
Bobby Kelsey watched Eli Kirkhart hurry after Thoma. As the two agents conferred, Kelsey smiled and trotted to his own car. His heart was beating fast, and he had a feeling of exaggerated importance, as if the whole world rested upon what he did now. He knew that was untrue, but it was a reflection of his sense of destiny. What happened to him mattered, and he was not going to go down just because that freak Jeff Hammond had a burr on his butt about the defectors that he had been unable to pick off since 1991. The hot summers and cold winters of Texas flashed into his mind. He saw his father's mean, narrow face, his mother's constant fear, and the desolation of his hometown, so small and poor it dotted no map. It seemed just yesterday he had escaped, and he was not going back. Not to that place or anywhere like it on earth.
Once again, his goals were clear. Jeff Hammond and Beth Convey were in his way. A danger to General Berianov and to him. They must not be taken alive.
46
Jeff Hammond paced Evans Olsen's bungalow, angry and disturbed. Every few minutes he peeled back the dusty drapes a fraction of an inch to study the street. Beth tried to sit calmly, but she was worried, and Evans Olsen was distraught. Trembling, Evans leaned against the hallway arch, alcohol pouring from him in rivers of sweat. He alternately stared at the clock on the kitchen wall and then gazed back at them. Time was becoming critical, and if Beth and Jeff could not reach the Jefferson Memorial soon, they would be unable to leave the invitations for Berianov to find. Which meant Berianov's killers would be at Olsen's door minutes later.
Beth jumped up to join Jeff at the windows. That's when they heard a noise from the kitchen. Evans squealed and fell back away from the doorway and into the hall. She spun instantly, her Walther leveled. Jeff was already crouching low, his Beretta aimed.
At that moment, Special Agent Eli Kirkhart walked into the archway that led to the kitchen, his hands high above his
head, his bulldog face somber. "I was wrong. Sorry, old man." He stared gravely at Jeff.
"Really?" Jeff came smoothly up out of his crouch and stepped toward Kirkhart, his pistol still pointed. He had thought he knew Eli, but the events of the past few days had taught him he had not even known himself, so how could he claim to have understood anyone else, especially from that long-ago era in the Bureau when they had been so young and idealistic? Just a short time ago he would have thrown his shoulder into a man who had done to him what Eli had done, knocked him flat, disarmed him, and not bothered to listen to a word. Now he was more cautious. "Fill me in. I'm all ears. Don't leave anything out."
Eli nodded. "I owe you an apology. You were in Pennsylvania when the director was murdered. I know that, of course, because of the little contretemps between you and me. Which means, of course, there's no way you can be the mole, not if the mole killed the director, and that is exactly what the evidence points to. The real mole could've planted the evidence to frame you. Since that evidence was your fingerprints again, just as it was in Stone Point, I suspect the same device was used to set you up in both places, and it backs up the evidence that the mole was behind both pieces of dirty work. Besides, Jeff, you're too damn smart to leave behind such a clear clue at two crime scenes. You may be many things, but you're no amateur."
Jeff snorted but said nothing.
"So now we have a problem," Eli went on. "We both have a problem. . . . He's out in the front, getting set up and quite prepared to kill you and Convey, and I'm exceedingly unhappy about that. But we don't have a lot of time to fix things, alas."
"Jesus." Jeff spun back to the windows, flattened against the wall, and peeled back the drape just enough to peer out. "There are four out there. I see Bobby Kelsey. Damn! Are you saying Bobby's the mole? Not Bobby!"
"Yes, Jeff. It's him. He has the kind of access required, and he knew everything you knew. If it's not you, it's got to be him."
As Jeff digested that, Beth asked, "How did you get in here?"
