by Brian Haig
Tingle did not enjoy my metaphor, but got the point and assured me he could get an answer fairly quickly. I gave him my cell number.
Jennie glanced at me and said, “That’s cunning. I never even considered that thread.”
“Had we followed that thread a few hours ago, that would’ve been cunning.”
“Stop looking backward.”
I replied, “Look, about George, I’m sorry. I gave him the perfect shot at your ass.”
She did not contradict me, but she did say, “The only important thing at this moment is stopping Jason Barnes.” After another moment she observed, “He’s playing mind games with us, Sean. He’s very good at it.”
I knew exactly what she meant, but I wanted to hear her thoughts on the matter. “Explain that.”
“He knows how we work and how the bureaucracy functions. These quick, unexpected hammer blows are meant to keep us off balance and at each other’s throats. He’s aware of our individual and institutional propensity to cover our own asses.”
True enough. Still, it was strange, I thought, how shrewdly Barnes was playing his hand. I said to Jennie, “I really underestimated this clown. Nothing in his background suggests this level of deviousness.”
She squeezed my arm. “With a father like his, he grew up hiding his feelings and disguising his strengths and weaknesses. This is a remarkably conflicted individual, religious yet murderous, a servant of the government who’s now out to destroy that government, a man sworn to protect the same President he now vows to kill. Jason Barnes is a severely fractured personality. When he looks in the mirror, I doubt he recognizes himself.”
Jennie called the ops center, informed the duty officer we were en route, and ordered an emergency all-hands call for a very important meeting.
I commented, “Can I get out of this blamefest—I mean, meeting?”
“No.” She looked at her watch and punched the gas.
I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Once again, a nagging intuition was telling me something was very wrong.
CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE
MARK TOWNSEND WASN’T GOING TO SHOW UP.
Nor George Meany, who remained at the bomb scene, having generously volunteered to act as the on-site commander and public spokesman. Consequently, Meany’s fingerprints would not be on whatever decision we made, a thought that I’m sure crossed his mind.
Anyway, before we entered the conference room, Jennie arranged for the Bureau to acquire both of our cell phone frequencies, essentially by calling each other, allowing some homing device to get our footprint.
Quick reaction teams were scrambling into position around the city, and five helicopters filled with sharpshooters were in the air. The idea was, the moment the bad guys called, the Bureau would get a fix on them, the quick reaction teams would swoop, and game over.
But the mood in the room, far from festive, was dispirited and edgy, though at least not panicky.
Everybody knew it was only a matter of time before we were stuffing shivs in one another’s backs at the Senate inquest. It’s a little hard to strike a chord of amity when everybody’s busy covering their butt. There were a lot of forced smiles.
By dint of seniority, Phyllis assumed the chair at the end of the table and took responsibility for this nightmare. Roger Hammersly, Deputy Director of the FBI, had been duly notified he was the acting chief, but he was in Seattle, at least six hours from Washington and about two thousand miles from the blameline. Lucky him. Somebody was having a happy day.
We were all standing around, chatting aimlessly as we waited for the last important personage to appear. Eventually the door opened, and Mrs. Nancy Hooper entered. Outside the door I saw a large gaggle of Secret Service agents sort of standing stiffly against the walls, that way they do.
Mrs. Hooper, I noted, had added a bulletproof vest to her wardrobe and a nasty scowl to her face.
Everybody moved to their seats, and Phyllis brought the meeting to order, saying, “A number of us in this room knew Joan Townsend. Nearly everybody here has now lost a friend. I’m sure we are all deeply affected. So I will remind you, this is a time for clear and unemotional thinking.”
Everybody nodded. Great advice—if I recalled correctly, the exact words the captain of the Titanic advised his crew.
Phyllis then said, “I should begin with an update on my activities. Some of you may know that we’ve been tracking a hundred-million-dollar block of money flowing very quickly through the international banking system.”
Aside from me, this was news to this crowd, who all craned forward and looked intensely interested. I also leaned forward, curious to hear how this turned out. Phyllis shrugged and then informed us, “Unfortunately, this lead has not panned out. The money belongs to another of those Russian oil barons trying to hide his money from the taxman. However, we’ll keep looking, and who knows what might turn up.”
This brought no sighs of relief.
Turning to Mr. Halderman, Phyllis said, “Gene is now going to offer us his department’s assessment of the state of the nation.”
So far, Mr. Halderman and his Department of Homeland Security had contributed nothing, and said nothing, so this was a nod to smart politics. You never know who you might need at the next crisis, only that there will be a next one, and it always pays to debruise hurt egos. One does not get to be an old hand in this business, like Phyllis, by overlooking the small things.
Gene gathered some papers in his hand and stood. I noticed he had switched out of his Armani suit and into some conservatively cut rags from Joe Bank. He at least appeared to be getting the cultural message, but the rest of us were baggy-eyed, wrinkled, smelly, and unkempt, whereas Gene looked well rested, freshly shaved, and somebody was wearing a really bad aftershave. The guy looked like he had just stepped out of the latest edition of Grooming for Success. Why did none of us take this guy seriously?
He coughed into his hand and collected his thoughts. He said, “The department has raised the national threat level to orange. This is a recognition of where we’re at, tempered by the fact that the threat is internal. In our lingo, that means we still regard it as a domestic issue.”
People were yawning.
“I know a lot of you have been too busy to watch the news,” Gene continued. “The American people are stunned...shocked...almost convulsed. It’s not quite at 9/11 intensity, but close...” Gene went on with his spiel, talking about the number of news hits and Internet mentions the murders had gleaned. It appeared that some channels were providing endless updates every fifteen minutes, so the public could keep score. I began to wonder what in the hell the Homeland Security Department did. When this was over, maybe I should apply for a job there. I pictured the rest of my career seated around TVs and computer screens, munching doughnuts and popcorn, logging mentions. I mean, the worst that could happen was a paper cut, or hot coffee spilling in my lap.
Next came a rundown of all the measures his department had implemented regarding air- and seaports, none of which had the slightest fucking thing to do with the threat we faced. On the other hand, nothing we’d done seemed to be working either. Eventually Phyllis saw that this clown was wasting our time and our limited attention and she stood up and interrupted, “Thank you, Gene.”
He was in the midst of describing the increase in port security. “I...excuse me?”
Phyllis said, “Thank you for your update. Sit down, Gene.”
He looked a little crushed, but he shut up and he sat. Phyllis summarized for Gene, informing us, “If you haven’t been paying attention, Gene’s point is, these killings have hugely upset the entire country. We are in a national crisis.”
Mrs. Hooper saw her opening and amplified on that thought. “I just left the President. He is...enraged. He released a taped statement this morning—before Joan Townsend’s murder—telling the country to calm down, that our law enforcement is the best in the world, our officials will be protected, and these people will be caught.”
&
nbsp; She paused to allow us to consider how ironic, or perhaps idiotic, that statement looked, a mere two hours later. Like all of us, apparently the Prez had been a bit too optimistic.
Mrs. Hooper continued, “We just canceled the President’s southern sweep.” She glanced in the direction of an unsmiling Mr. Charles Wardell. “This could cost him the election, but the Secret Service insists that the risks are simply too great. Congress has granted itself a three-day holiday. The President and the Vice President are now quarantined in separate and secure locations. Also, the Secretary of State and the Secretary of Defense were dispatched early this morning on separate overseas trips. So, even if the worst happens...”
As she droned on, not for nothing, I again recalled that cold war nuclear evacuation plan. This sounded exactly like what was going on here, and a chill actually went down my spine. In only two short days, Jason Barnes had become a ten-megaton asshole.
Anyway, Mrs. Hooper’s mood was testy, and essentially, she informed us that we shouldn’t get too smug about the President’s earlier words, because the White House now regarded us as incompetent fools, the nation had lost all respect for us, Jason Barnes was running circles around us, and so on. This wasn’t exactly news, nor even particularly helpful, especially since we all knew it to be true.
I mean, all our careers were probably in the crapper, the clock was ticking, we were tired and demoralized, and this browbeating wasn’t helping. I finally got a little hot under the collar and stood up. “Mrs. Hooper...”
She looked at me, and I said, “If you’re through rubbing our faces in shit, we have important and timely issues to consider. Sit down and shut up.”
I had caught her completely off guard, and for a moment there was a stunned silence in the room. In fact, her lips were parting to say something when Phyllis said to me, “You have the nuance of a jackhammer.” She turned to Mrs. Hooper. “However regrettably worded, Drummond’s point is valid. Mrs. Hooper, you may sit, or you may leave, and we’ll find somebody else in the White House to deal with.”
Mrs. Hooper had to get her own growl in and replied, “I’m not about to leave. I’ve sat through all these meetings. I have notes. I know who did what.”
Phyllis stared at her. “At a later time I’m sure that will be...useful. But now”—she looked at her watch—“we have less than fifteen minutes before Sean or Jennie gets a call. A productive use of that time might be to consider how to verify the callers, and how we should respond in the face of this offer.”
Nobody objected. What was there to object to?
Jennie jumped in and said, “Sean and I viewed nearly all the murder scenes. It won’t be difficult to confirm their authenticity.”
Phyllis nodded, then posed the question on all our minds. “Why would they want a deal at this stage?”
Why indeed.
Jennie had already considered this question and said, “The logical conclusion would be because Barnes has largely achieved what he wants. Retribution was his goal, and he has certainly exacted a lot of that. Maybe he has satiated his fury and is ready to move on.”
“But you seem to be implying there’s another conclusion,” Phyllis stated, or asked.
“In fact, I believe there is. I think his partners are in it for the money. Now he needs money.”
I took the big risk of overintellectualizing this and suggested, “I think it stinks.”
“Why?” Phyllis asked.
“Because Barnes is on an emotional rampage. The grim reaper.” For want of a better way to express this, I asked, “Why would he...you know, stop reaping?”
“In fact, Sean makes a good point,” Jennie informed us. “So allow me to speculate. As I said, his partners want money. They know the noose is tightening. It’s the inherent weakness of all criminal conspiracies—conflicting motives. They never shared Barnes’s emotional objective, it’s all about the money for them, and in a sense, he could be experiencing a mutiny. They’re probably putting unbearable pressure on Barnes to cut a deal now.”
“To forgo a hundred for fifty million?” I asked skeptically.
“I hope you’re not suggesting that’s chump change.” Jennie then looked at Mr. Wardell and added, “The President’s their hardest target. We know he’s in their crosshairs, and they know we’re taking extraordinary precautions.”
In that light, Phyllis asked Mr. Wardell, “How do you regard your odds?”
“Considering that Barnes was one of us, we’ve altered our normal procedures. Also, we’re keeping the President in a room in the White House we’ve never used before and we’ve tripled our coverage. Getting in and out is next to impossible.”
“But not impossible?” Jennie asked.
Chuck squirmed a little. “That word’s not in our lexicon. Could he get through? His first year, he worked in the White House. He has intimate knowledge of the physical setup. Could he and his people penetrate our defenses? They would have to be damned good.” He looked at all our faces and asked, “Are they that good?”
Nobody touched that one. But Jennie said, “Consider this also—the caller asked to speak with me or with Sean.”
In line with her background, Phyllis naturally observed, “By name...Yes, that is odd. Neither of you have been in the news. One wonders if perhaps Barnes has a friend on the inside.”
Jennie replied, “It’s much likelier he learned about us through our visit to Mrs. Barnes. But yes. We have to consider the possibility that somebody on the inside is leaking information to Barnes.”
So that unhappy thought was batted back and forth a bit. If Barnes had an inside source, it would explain some of his success. If not, he was just smarter than us. Actually, those competing thoughts weren’t necessarily mutually exclusive. Either way, or both ways, we weren’t going to learn the answer anytime soon. Phyllis very wisely made this point, suggesting, “Assume the worst. Barnes has somebody well positioned to keep him abreast of what we’re doing. So there’s that additional element of risk to be factored.”
Jennie said, “From this moment on, we’ll need to compartmentalize our decisions.”
Phyllis turned back to Mrs. Hooper and raised the issue we should’ve discussed from the beginning. She said, “The decision to pay them off is a political issue. We in the bureaucracy can recommend...However, the decision rests with your boss.”
For a moment I thought Mrs. Hooper was reconsidering her decision about whether to stay or go. Hers had been a free ride until this moment, but now the buck was passed. After a pained hesitation she replied, “Absolutely not. You all know our national policy. We never negotiate with terrorists.”
Jennie said, “One, these aren’t terrorists. Two, all policies are malleable. It all depends on the size of the gun pointed at our heads. We have negotiated with terrorists in the past, and we surely will in the future. Think Iran/contra.”
“I don’t need a lecture from any of you. The cost of paying off murderers would be politically catastrophic in the midst of an election.”
I mentioned, “Good point,” and she nodded in my direction. I added, “Boy—think what it will do for the election if your boss is dead.”
And at just that instant, my cell phone went off. Everyone stopped staring at me and stared at it.
It beeped a second time, and a third. I cleared my throat, lifted it up, and said, “Drummond.”
The voice was male, and he said, “Eureka.”
“I...who is this?”
“Tingle. Remember, I owe you a call.” He added, “We ran the check you requested.”
Six sets of eyes were fixed on my lips. Nobody was even breathing. I put my hand over the phone. “Relax.” I said to Tingle, “Tell me about it.”
“Okay. Of the five suspects, three are at work. The fourth has been on leave for the past two weeks. Thank God he left an address. We found him at his lakehouse in Utah. Fishing.”
“And the fifth?”
“Name’s Clyde Wizner. He quit about seven weeks ago. His supervisor
was very surprised. He was very good at his job, there were no signs he was unhappy, or—”
I said, “General, we’ve got the fucking roof falling on top of us here. Speed it up.”
“Uh...fine. Wizner has prior military service. Used to be an EOD specialist. That’s—”
I already knew EOD specialists were experts in defusing and exploding bombs and mines. “Got it—move on.”
For a moment there was silence. Then he said, “Don’t push me, Major. That’s right...I checked on you, too. Later, you and I will discuss passing yourself off as a civilian.”
As I said, these guys are really sneaky. “At the appropriate time, I look forward to that talk, sir.”
“Well—you shouldn’t. Now, regarding Wizner, give me a number and we’ll fax over his service record and his civilian record.”
I asked Jennie for help, and she read the number off the fax machine in the far corner of the room. I relayed it to Tingle, who closed saying, “Wizner has the technical training and know-how to be the bomber. I have ten agents backgrounding him. We’ll know a lot more soon. I’ll call when I—”
“Thank you, sir.”
I punched off.
Almost simultaneously the fax machine started spewing out sheets.
I looked at Jennie and pointed at my watch. Maybe five minutes. Time was really short. Jennie looked around and asked, “Well? Do Sean and I have permission to say yes, or is it no?”
All eyes shifted back to Mrs. Hooper.
She said, “You may negotiate, but not commit.” Typical politician.
Jennie said, “That won’t do. They’ll insist on a firm answer. Yes or no?”
Mrs. Hooper replied, “I’ve given you permission to negotiate. That’s more than enough.”
Seconding Jennie, I said, “It’s not. Don’t assume these people are stupid, Mrs. Hooper. We know they’re not—right?”
She looked at Jennie, and then me. “Deal with it.”
My phone rang again. Thinking it was Tingle again, I lifted it up and said, “Look, I know you’re pissed, but we’re a little busy over here.”
