The President s Assassin

by Brian Haig

  Jennie turned to an agent standing beside the door and said, “Handle that now.”

  He collected my cell phone and departed.

  Rita asked me, “You know D.C.?”

  “Where? Oh...that big place across the river.”

  Jennie said, “Ignore him. He knows it well enough.”

  “Right.” Rita looked a little worried, however, and said, “We’ll make sure a map’s in the car. Point is, stay cool. They jerk you around, that’s a good sign. The pros know the car’s gonna have a tracker on it, you’re tagged, and it don’t really make a damn whether they run you back and forth to Phoenix.” She paused to be sure I understood.

  “Got it.”

  “Sometimes, they send you straight to the drop-off. That’s usually a bad sign for us.”

  “Why?”

  “Then you’re gonna become a hostage. We don’t like that. See, the smarter ones, they reverse the process. They’ll have their own vehicle, and usually they’ll try to make you get in. Got it?”

  “Right.”

  “They’ll try all kinds of gimmicks and tricks. Car switches, usually done inside parking garages or tunnels. That kind of shit.” She looked at Jennie and said, “Case they get nervous or pissed off, we need to make sure they got another number to call other than his.”

  “They already have mine,” Jennie assured her.

  I didn’t like the sound of this.

  I asked, “Nervous or pissed off about what?”

  She turned back to me and, I noted, did not specifically address this question. She said, “But I have to tell you, taking hostages, that’s rare. Most criminals are bush league. They think they can outsmart us and they’re wrong.”

  Great. “My question was, in case they get pissed off about what?”

  Rita and Jennie exchanged quick glances. Jennie commented, “Sean, we know these people are experienced in killing, and possibly weapons thefts. But expertise in kidnapping is a whole different skillset with a whole different set of risks and rules.”

  I was being reassured to death and getting a little tired of it. I looked at Jennie, no longer sure whose side she was on. I said, “You and I, we’re still watching each other’s butts, right?”

  She squeezed my shoulder and smiled.

  It couldn’t hurt to ask, so I looked at Rita. “Ever have a case where they just whacked the courier?”

  I saw that evasive look again. “There’s no upside in that. Once they get the money, you got no value dead. It only complicates things for them. If they make you a hostage, you only got value alive and kicking. See how that works?” She paused for a moment before she noted, “Unless...well, now, I gotta ask...you done anything to piss these people off?”

  Had I? Well, I had tried to put all their murderous asses into the electric chair. But that hadn’t worked out obviously. I shook my head.

  “Good. Don’t. Stay real polite and respectful. These people are gonna be nervous and strung out. Agitating them would be a really dumb idea. Remember...polite and respectful.”

  Jennie shook her head and commented, “That’s not really his strong suit.”

  Hah-hah. This went on a while longer, the two of them keeping it lighthearted, like this was just a big lark that stupid little Sean really shouldn’t worry about. Then Rita began relating anecdotes from past cases she thought might be illustrative and instructive. Of course, they all had happy endings.

  Then phase one—called, I think, “Motivating and Instructing the Idiot”—ended, and three new agents hustled into the conference room.

  Rita introduced her colleagues, whose names I immediately forgot. One studied me a moment, then reached into a big bag, withdrew a flak jacket, and handed it to me. Rita said, “Try it on. Just a precaution.”

  Jennie chose this moment to inform me, “We can’t give you a weapon, Sean. You’re not a federal agent. Also, if Barnes’s people discover a gun it would cause major problems.”

  I very reasonably pointed out, “Not having a gun could pose bigger problems.”

  Rita Sanchez had obviously been through all this before, because she brushed my objection aside and informed me, “Now it’s time to show our bag of tricks. You’ll be driving a Suburban—that’s your weapon. It’s a special model with a nitrous oxide–charged 450-horsepower engine, it’s bulletproof, and nearly bombproof. Curb weight’s four tons, enough to bash aside anything that gets in your path. So if this goes to shit, push the nitrous oxide button, hit the pedal, and scoot.”

  “I’d rather have the gun, thank you.”

  She smiled at me, turned to one of her assistants, and said, “Get the suppository.”

  The agent opened a small briefcase, peeked inside, and then withdrew a tiny metal cylinder, which he held up for me to examine.

  “Wait a minute—You’re not sticking that up my butt.”

  Rita thought this was very funny. She said, “We used to do that. But I got tired of looking up people’s asses, so I begged the Bureau to find something else. This is the ingestible form.” I’m sure the relief on my face was palpable as she held it in front of my eyes to inspect. “As you probably guessed, it’s a tracking device. In this case, developed by our friends at the Agency. Spooks tend to be real cautious, and they use wands to detect transmitting devices. These days anyone can buy those wands on eBay, so this little baby stays inactive till we signal it to transmit. We turn it on and off intermittently. Range of fifty miles, and it stays in your tummy till your next bowel movement. We’ll activate it only if you become a hostage.”

  And more of the same. Basically, the plan was that I would go wherever Jason sent me, would rise to unexplored heights of courteousness and civility, and would deliver the package, which turned out to be not one package but fifteen oversized Samsonite suitcases stuffed with fifty million in used cash.

  Option A was to unload the suitcases at the location of their choice and then depart, Sean’s ass intact. Under option B, Sean would end up escorting the money containers a little longer than anticipated.

  Nobody wanted to dwell much on option B. This was not a particularly good sign.

  About twenty minutes into this, Jennie took a call from Mrs. Hooper, who informed her the President said it was a go and personally wished me luck and Godspeed.

  Great—my final chance for a reprieve just flew out the window. But if this thing worked out okay, maybe I could ask him for a job. Of course, if it didn’t work out, I wouldn’t have a job problem and his would just be starting.

  Rita and Jennie reassured me three dozen times that everything was going to work out fine. A tribe of agents would be following my every move. A fleet of helicopters would darken the skies. The District of Columbia police commissioner had been brought into the act, and at that moment was maneuvering blocking units into position to close every major and even insignificant artery out of the city.

  But it would never come to that, Rita assured me. In the unlikely event I became a hostage, and the completely unlikely event the bad guys gave them the slip, Rita would flip on the little transmitter and I’d be in broadcast mode. Once I made face-to-face contact with the perps, their minutes were numbered.

  The Army has a saying: Prior planning prevents piss-poor execution. I knew Agent Rita Sanchez and her crew had been through this drill before, they sounded like they understood the odds and possibilities, they appeared confident, and they were making the proper preparations. Yet it did not escape my attention that we weren’t the only ones planning. The opposition probably had schemed and prepared for this moment for months.

  A very long day had become an eternity.

  CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX

  EVENTUALLY THE PREPARATION PHASE ENDED AND WE SHIFTED INTO PHASE two, titled, I think, “Don’t Let the Idiot Think About It.”

  Somebody wheeled a television into the conference room, and we sipped coffee, shared a tray of stale tuna sandwiches, observed the news coverage, and tried to act cool and relaxed.

  Jennie informed us
she had calls to make and important coordination to accomplish, and she stepped out, leaving me with Rita, who for the next thirty minutes tried to thread that fine line between impressing me with her sharpness and keeping my head in the clouds. Eventually, Jennie returned.

  It did not escape my attention that Jennie and Rita were isolating me from the preparations occurring outside this room. Occasionally, agents poked their heads into the room, and either Rita or Jennie stepped outside to confer for a few moments.

  At one point, Jennie informed Rita, “Did you know Sean was a former infantry officer? Special Forces, in fact. He survived some really tough scrapes.” Rita looked suitably impressed and commented, “Great. Barnes and his pals won’t give a certified badass like him the slightest problem.”

  I was sure this routine came straight from the Bureau manual chapter called “Preparing the Happy Lamb for the Slaughter.”

  Nor did it escape my notice that Jennifer Margold, with whom I had nearly played a round of hide-the-willie, had suddenly cooled considerably toward yours truly. She had become distanced, and almost clinical, bordering on manipulative. I was sure she was legitimately concerned for me. Still, I found it annoying to go from being the object of her sweaty obsession to Sean the idiot.

  In a way, I was delighted she had her head in the game. In a larger way, I really wasn’t.

  Eventually I asked Rita, “Why do they want cash?”

  “It’s why bad guys do the things they do.”

  “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean. You thought crooks all had numbered accounts in some overseas bank they want you to wire money to.”

  “Don’t they?”

  “Lots do want it done electronically. These days, the more sophisticated ones don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “We now have the ability to put electronic tracers on it. Don’t matter how many times they move it, we’ll still be waiting at the end, when they try to get it out of the bank.”

  Intermittingly, George appeared on the tube creating what I thought was a splendid illusion of professional confidence, ballooning into optimism. A few pesky reporters weren’t buying this act and kept trying to worm embarrassing or insightful information from him, which George parried with wonderfully vague responses and his perpetual I-know-something-you-don’t smirk. I usually found that expression annoying. This was the exception. The public would be scared shitless if it knew the amount of vacuous space behind that smirk.

  Eventually, Jennie went to the fax machine and retrieved the files CID had zipped over regarding our newest suspect, Mr. Clyde Wizner. She tried to struggle through them, but they made little sense to her, and she slid them across the table at me. “Tell me about this guy.”

  In one way or another, Clyde Wizner might soon be enjoying a very big role in my life, so this was the first useful diversion. Anyway, military files tend to be somewhat one-dimensional and impersonal. They tell you things like where a soldier’s from, where he/she has been assigned, how he/she’s been trained, and what to do with him/her after they’re dead. In short, a great deal about the person and nothing about the personality.

  So here’s the deal. Clyde Wizner was forty-nine years old, originally from Killeen, the town outside Fort Hood. He had entered the Army at the age of twenty-two in the year 1977, a high school graduate, no college, and had a GT score—roughly comparable to an IQ—of 135. So Clyde was bright and was selected to become an Army engineer, with a subspecialty in EOD, or Explosive Ordnance Disposal—an expertise that takes nerves of steel, a wonderful memory for tiny details and textbook procedures, and a large reliable life insurance policy.

  After basic training and a few specialty training courses, Clyde spent three years at Fort Hood, followed by three years in Germany, a year in Korea, three more years at Hood, and then out. Interspersed between those assignments, he attended plenty of additional training, a few leadership courses and a few bombs and mines things to keep him current on the latest battlefield nasties. He remained single and presumably unattached. He made it to the rank of staff sergeant, and I guess his service was honorable, because I saw no evidence of blemishes, and he was immediately accepted for civilian employment at Fort Hood.

  The interesting fact was that Clyde Wizner spent almost seventeen years performing civilian service before he mysteriously walked into his boss’s office and quit. He was only three short years from grabbing the golden ring of lifetime monthly checks and half-assed medical benefits. A cynical mind might suspect Clyde had found a better deal. I’m good at cynical.

  I glanced inside his thick civilian personnel file and saw exactly what drew Mr. Eric Tanner to this guy. At Fort Hood, Mr. Wizner had worked in the Office of Post Operations, the nerve center of all that did and did not happen across the sprawling base. As long as he cloaked his nosiness, Clyde could access everything from range operations data to weapons shipments, to military police training activities.

  I summarized this for Jennie, who commented, “Do you think it was Wizner who made the call?”

  “Texan accent...right age...same crappy civilian employee attitude all soldiers know and love. Possibly.”

  She and Rita exchanged glances again. Rita looked at me and commented, “Whatever you do, do not let on that you know or even suspect his identity. Understand?”

  Jennie said, “She’s right, Sean. It would be like putting a gun to your own head.”

  I drew a zipper across my lips.

  “I’m serious. He’ll kill you.” Jennie added, “But, if the chance comes up, try to get a confirmation. Look and listen for hints or clues to his background and identity.”

  “Don’t worry. Subtlety is my forte.”

  Nobody seemed to buy that for some reason. Jennie explained, “This could be a huge break, Sean. Even if they somehow get away, it would give us a valuable trail to follow.”

  “I understand.”

  The phone rang.

  It didn’t matter that we were expecting, even anticipating it. Literally, we all three ended up on our feet, staring down at the little cell phone lying on the long shiny conference table like a poisoned chalice. Rita smiled at me and said, “Last chance. You sure you wanta put your head in the lion’s mouth?”

  I was not at all sure. The phone rang again. I lifted it up, cleared my throat, and said, “Drummond.”

  “You got my money? All of it?” It was the same raspy bass voice, the same in-your-face tone.

  “Fifteen suitcases full. But it’s not yours yet, pal.”

  “Used and unmarked, right, boy?”

  I looked at Jennie, who nodded. “I’m assured the money’s clean and untraceable.”

  “Yer friends better be playin’ you straight. If not, somebody’s gonna be dead.”

  “Hey, they’re federal employees. You can trust them.”

  He laughed. “Okay...what’re you drivin’?”

  “A big blue Suburban.”

  “Got it. Now, here’s the way this goes down. There’s a parking garage on 13th and L Street. Third deck down. Fifteen minutes. Not a second later. Comprendo? Say it back to me.”

  I repeated it, and he hung up.

  I shoved back my chair and sprinted for the exit, and Jennie and Rita trotted alongside me. Rita gave me a big cotton-candy smile and assured me, “We’ll have five units inside that garage long before you get there. They’ll never get out.”

  We were out in the parking lot, where a dark blue Suburban with the driver’s door opened was parked and idling. The back cargo area was loaded to the roof with large gray suitcases. I jumped into the driver’s seat and took a moment to familiarize myself with the controls. Rita pointed at a little button by the gearshift. “Push that to get the nitrous oxide to kick in.”

  “Got it.”

  Jennie grabbed my arm. I turned and looked at her. She informed me, “Rita and I will be in a command-and-control van a few blocks from you.” She leaned inside and kissed my cheek. She whispered, “Trust me. I’ll get y
ou out of this. No matter what.”

  “If you don’t, I’ll never forgive you.”

  She laughed. It wasn’t a joke.

  I closed the door and sped off. I glanced at my watch and noted it was 3:00 P.M., not yet rush hour, though this was a city of government servants, who have a habit of knocking off a wee bit early. The traffic was not sparse, but neither was it overly heavy. I floored it and made good time to I-395, then the 14th Street Bridge, crossed over the muddy brown Potomac, and entered the District, where I was promptly stopped by a red light.

  I pounded on the horn, and in return got angry stares and a few middle fingers. In the words of John F. Kennedy, Washington truly is a city with southern efficiency and northern charm. I honked again; nobody budged. I looked at my watch and began to wonder if the green light was broken. Then I glanced down and saw that some smart person had placed a blue bubble light on the floor by the passenger seat. I opened my window, stuck the light to the roof, and then studied the dash until I located a small toggle switch. I flipped it, a siren went off, and the cars ahead of me began scooting up onto the curbs, making a narrow passage. I moved ahead, cautiously looked both ways at the red light, and then pushed the nitrous oxide button and shot through the intersection like a rocket.

  I should have been wearing a cape. Actually I should have been wearing a straitjacket. I proceeded north a few blocks, went right, and then left, and ended up on 13th, heading north toward L Street. I detected nobody following me, nobody to my flanks, nobody ahead. But if I took Rita at her word, every other person I saw was a Fed, and every third car was packed with flatfeet, armed, dangerous, and dedicated solely to the preservation of yours truly.

  Directly ahead, I picked out the sign for L Street. I reached forward and flipped a switch, and the siren fizzled out. I saw a garage, and then...directly across the street, a second garage. It struck me that we might have a big problem here.