by Brian Haig
I looked left and right, and indeed, there were two garages. Definitely, both were on 13th and L; one had a sign reading “Partially Full,” whatever that means, but neither had a sign reading “Assholes in here.”
I had a sudden vision of being stuck down on the lower deck of the wrong parking garage, as Jason and his pals blew down the Treasury Building or something.
Less than two minutes left, according to my watch. It was a fifty-fifty chance. In fact, I was halfway through eeny-meeny-miney-moe when my phone rang.
I put it to my ear. A female voice said, “Damn. Confusin’, ain’t it, Drummond?”
I didn’t recognize the voice, but the shitkicker accent was familiar, as was the shitty attitude and the superior undertone, or overtone, or whatever. “Who’s this?”
“Shut up. Jus’ do what I tell ya. Keep drivin’.”
The phone remained at my ear as I drove. I could hear her breathing. Shit—again, I reminded myself to stop underestimating Jason Barnes. Back at 13th and L were two garages crawling with Bureau undercover types. Also, because I was being kept on the phone, I was out of contact with Jennie and Rita, who were probably experiencing heart attacks. A little late, it struck me that somebody should have thought about adding a second cell phone to my arsenal of goodies. The voice said, “Go left on M.”
Ahead I saw the sign for M Street, and I noted beside the entry another sign that indicated it was a one-way street. She either sensed or prejudged my hesitancy and said, “Jus’ friggin’ do it.”
Left it was. No oncoming traffic was headed in my direction, which was fortunate, as this big behemoth would have rolled over anything in its path.
About halfway down the block, she said, “On your right...pull into that alley.”
I turned into the passageway; it was narrow, essentially one-way, and I saw, about halfway down the alley, the rear of a parked gray cargo van. “I can’t make it through,” I informed her. “The path is blocked.”
“No shit. Put all them suitcases in the van. Hurry your ass.”
I pulled to a stop some three feet behind the van, stepped out, and quickly surveyed my environment. The van was a stretched-out Ford Econoline, designed for hauling cargo, with a completely enclosed back, and at the rear and on both sides the windows were darkly tinted.
I left my phone on the driver’s seat, dashed to the rear of the Suburban, and began yanking out suitcases crammed with money. Money, at least a lot of money, can be very heavy. My own money, for some reason, is always ridiculously light. Anyway, I was reduced to lugging one case at a time, requiring about three minutes to complete the task.
I looked around again and saw nobody. Not a soul. Still, I had that eerie feeling of being watched.
I felt a wash of relief, and at the same time, to be frank, a little let down. I had really gotten myself psyched up for this escapade, pumped up with good intentions and adrenaline. Now it was over, finis, end of story. I had thought my part was going to be more dramatic, or perhaps climactic, than a simple transfer from one vehicle to another. But Mother Luck seemed to be smiling upon Sean Drummond. The worst case hadn’t materialized, I wasn’t a hostage, I was still alive, I was free to go on my way.
Returning to the phone in the Suburban, I informed the lady, “I’m done.”
“No you ain’t.”
“I’m...what?”
“What are you waitin’ for, moron? Go drive the van.”
Well, it did seem too easy. I walked the driver’s side, opened the door, and noted that the key was in the ignition. I climbed in, started it up, and pulled forward. I got to the end of the alleyway and she said, “Go left, then take a left on 14th.”
As the lady ordered, I went left, then left.
After a moment, she said, “Hey, somethin’ I forgot to tell ya. Drive real safe, now. No accidents, and be sure to avoid any big potholes, y’hear.” She giggled. After a moment she added, “Thing is, remember when we said we had somebody lined up for the next kill?”
“In fact, I was thinking you could do us all a favor and kill yourself. What do you think?”
“Shut up, asshole. Guess what? Ten pounds of C4 and thirty sticks of dynamite are hardwired to the gas tank of that van. Point is...you’re the man, Drummond. We push a button and klablewie.”
“You...Listen, lady, that would be really stupid. I’ve got the money.”
“No, you’re stupid. It’s federal money. Plenty more where that came from.”
Shit. “I...I understand.”
“You better. Now call yer friends. If all the helicopters ain’t outta the sky, and all the cop cars followin’ you ain’t gone in three minutes, you’re toast.”
She hung up.
I speed-dialed Jennie, who recognized my number and answered, “How you holding up, Sean?”
“We’ve...I mean...I’ve got a, uh...a big problem.”
In a very reassuring tone, she said, “No you don’t, Sean. Remember, trust me. We observed the switch. You’re now in a gray 2003 Ford cargo van driving south on 14th. Relax. You’re tailed and covered.”
“Well...you should probably inform those tails to back off a bit. See, I’m now driving around with ten pounds of C4 and thirty sticks of dynamite wired to a full gas tank. I really wouldn’t want anybody to get...you know, hurt.”
For a moment there was silence. But my attempt at sarcasm apparently struck home, because it took a moment before Jennie said, “Remain calm.”
“Ten pounds of C4 are under my ass, and that’s your best advice? Do better, Jennie. Tell me how I’m going to get out of this.”
When she didn’t answer I said, “Incidentally, you have less than three minutes to get all the helicopters out of the sky and all the trail cars away from me, or I’m hamburger.” I added, “Now assure me that you and Sanchez have a plan for this.”
But Jennie had apparently handed the phone to Rita, who informed me, “Jennie’s getting rid of the cars and helicopters. Just don’t sweat it. We’ll disperse our ground coverage.”
“Don’t disperse it—get rid of it.”
“I understand.”
“You’ve had cases like this before, right?”
Apparently Rita had to think about that. She said, “No two cases are ever identical. There are always new twists and curves.”
“Uh-huh. Tell me about the contingency where the courier becomes a bomb.”
“I’ll...Give me a little time to think about that.”
“Wrong answer. Wrong, wrong answer.” I punched off.
My blood pressure had just shot up about a hundred points. Barnes and his merry shitkickers would think nothing of vaporizing me, or even the fifty million disposable bucks in the back of this van. Then out of the blue, a truly disturbing thought popped into my brain. What if this was a dry run? Like an object lesson for Barnes to show the Feds not to try any funny business next time? How do I get myself into these things?
My phone rang. I said, “You’ve got my attention. Now what?”
But it was Jennie again, who said, “Sean, I’m sorry. We didn’t expect this. We’re thinking furiously back here. Whatever you do, don’t try jumping out of the van. Your seat could be hardwired to the C4. In fact, our technicians consider that...well, very likely.”
“I already thought of that. Tell me something useful.”
She said, “We thought we should warn you.” But in the event I didn’t get the moral of her warning, she added, “There’s no way to get you extracted. Do everything they say.” She punched off.
So there I was on a gloriously beautiful spring afternoon, driving down 15th Street in my favorite city in the whole world, in the very lopsided state of having fifty million bucks in the backseat of my car and a big bomb strapped to my ass.
God looks after fools and scoundrels, but I wasn’t sure whether that applied to idiots.
CHAPTER TWENTY - SEVEN
THE NEXT CALL CAME ABOUT TWO MINUTES LATER, FROM RITA, WHO INformed me, “The coverage is off,” and
abruptly hung up.
Why didn’t I feel relieved? This really sucked. A minute later the phone rang and I said, “Relax, lady. The coverage’s all gone.”
She replied, “Better be. Pull over at the curb.”
A moment later I said, “I’m here. What now?”
“Now you strip and throw yer clothes out the window. Shoes, everything.”
“Look, I’m wearing a really expensive suit, and—”
“You ain’t naked in one minute, yer very nice suit’s gonna be confetti.”
Before she could punch off I said, “Wait!”
“What?”
“Is there a pressure switch under the driver’s seat?”
“Yeah.”
“Then...how—”
“Figure it out, Drummond.” After a moment, she added, “’Course you ain’t been all that bright so far. So if I hear a big boom and see a bunch of yer guts flyin’ through the air, I’ll know you fucked up.” She laughed and punched off.
I ordinarily like a woman with a hearty sense of humor. I definitely didn’t like her. I wondered for a moment if she was the one who did June Lacy.
Anyway, the tie and shirt came off almost effortlessly. Then, one at a time, I brought my feet up to the dash and, one shoe and one sock at a time, dispensed with my footwear without a hitch. Obviously, the pants posed the really tricky challenge, and had I not practiced this drill a few times as a teenager in the backseat of Papa Drummond’s ’71 Buick, Mama Drummond wouldn’t have to worry about a Christmas gift for me anymore. But trust me, it’s a very different pressure, wriggling out of your trousers to get laid and trying to keep your ass connected to your torso. I was down to my undershorts and I decided, as a matter of pride, practicality, and modesty, that this was it. No mas.
I dialed Jennie, who answered, “What are you doing? Clothes are flying out of that van.”
“How do you— Hey, are you still covering me?”
“I’m...yes.”
“But Rita said—”
“Rita lied.”
“Get rid of the escorts.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Yes...you can—my ass is on the line here.”
For a moment she did not respond. Eventually, she said, “Sean, you’re driving around our capital in a large explosive device. Did you really believe we were going to eliminate all coverage?”
“I’m sorry. Didn’t you say I should trust you?”
I think she put her hand over the phone, because I dimly overheard her speaking with somebody in the background. Then she said, “We did not predict this. The White House and the D.C. police are going nuts on us right now. I’ve lost some authority and a lot of flexibility here. Understand?”
I didn’t really want to hear this. I had become a lobotomized pawn in a game being played between Jennie and Barnes, and now even the federal government was in the act. Everyone had a piece of me but me.
I drew a few deep breaths and tried to get myself under control. I said, “Incidentally, the woman on the phone has to be nearby. She said that if I blow up, pieces of Sean Drummond would splatter her windshield.”
“An interesting way to put it.”
“Tell me about it.”
“She’s two blocks over. Heading south, like you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Is she under observation, too?”
“Don’t be such an optimist. Your last call, she stayed on too long. But it was a moving signal. We only got her basic proximity.”
“All right. What next?”
“This phase is a head game. They want to isolate you from us, geographically and psychologically. They’re trying to exert their control and trying to throw us off balance.” To reassure me that this wasn’t a one-way street, I guess, Jennie added, “We’re gaming it as we go along. Expect them to try a switch of some sort.”
I thought about it a moment. I said, “Who’s the optimist now?”
“What’s that mean?”
“Maybe they’ll order me to drive to the White House and then blow me up.”
“I...We’re alert to that possibility.”
“I see.”
“We just ordered all federal facilities to put into effect their barrier plans. You won’t get through.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
“Do just that. They need to know it’s not an option.”
What she diplomatically failed to mention, I was sure, was the Feds also had a more proactive plan in place. If I moved within two blocks of the White House, a SWAT sharpshooter would put ten slugs through the driver of this van. “Jennie?”
“What?”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Don’t even ask that.”
“Sorry. I’m...Well, my day’s not really going all that well.”
“I’ve had better days, too. Remember, you may feel alone, but you’re not.”
“Oh...you’ve got sticks of TNT under your ass, too?”
She ignored that and said, “Listen, somebody’s trying to reach me and Barnes may be trying to reach you.” She hung up.
So I sat for a moment in my undershorts, feeling stupid, humiliated, and vulnerable. I tried to think through my options. It was a brief moment. I had none.
The phone rang, and I said, “Drummond.”
“Hey, asshole, you’re not completely naked,” the woman informed me.
“Give me a break. I’m down to my underpants.”
“Get rid of ’em.”
“No.”
“No? Hey, don’t fuck with me, pal.”
“Up yours.”
“I’ll push this little button.”
“Lady, I’m tired, I’m frustrated, and I’m in a really foul mood. If you want to spread me and fifty million bucks across thirty blocks over a pair of undershorts, do it. I’m going out in my underpants.”
I closed my eyes, held my breath, and waited to be turned into pasta paste. You have to draw the line somewhere.
Eventually, she said, “Feisty, aren’t you?”
“Just pissed.”
“Uh-huh. Well, this one’s no-shit nonnegotiable. Open the glove box.” So I did. She said, “Take out the phone and throw yers out the window. We don’t want no trackin’ devices, do we?”
I reached into the glove box, withdrew the cell phone, and tossed mine out the window. The new cell phone rang. She said, “Don’t even think of callin’ the Feds again. I’ll know, and it’ll be your last call. Now drive to Rosslyn, through Georgetown, and I’ll call you. Try anything stupid, they’ll be scrapin’ you off the sides of buildings.” She punched off.
I put the car in gear, began to pull out—then slammed on the brakes. What the...how had she known I was in my underpants? I looked carefully at the cars around me and carefully at the pedestrians on the sidewalk. Though I saw no one looking back at me, there had to be a spotter.
Then it hit me. I began a visual inspection of the cab and the rear of the van. Well I’ll be—clipped to the shade visor on the passenger side was a miniature camera, directed at me, broadcasting my every move. Somewhere else, I was sure, would be a microphone. Obviously, they had seen and probably heard everything.
I looked dead into the camera, lifted up my left hand, and stuck up my middle finger.
Fortunately, there was no big boom, however, the phone rang again. It was her, and she said, “That reminds me, Drummond. Git rid of that watch, too.”
Shit.
But rush hour was getting into full swing, and without my helpful blue light it took me twenty minutes to get to Georgetown, and another ten to crawl down the length of heavily congested M Street and go left onto Key Bridge.
As I stared ahead at the glass towers of Rosslyn, it struck me, and I’m sure it also struck Jennie and Rita, that moving me out of the District was another shrewd move. Our whole two hours of preparation had been spent coordinating and rehearsing with the D.C. Police Depa
rtment. An institution accustomed to being bossed around by the Feds. An institution that exerted monolithic control over everything inside the District’s boundaries. The Virginia side of the river was bureaucratic chaos. The police departments were balkanized by county, and coordination between the Bureau and the corresponding local departments would be a hopeless mess.
As Rita Sanchez had said, I knew it to be true that most bad guys aren’t particularly clever. In fact, most are annoyingly stupid. I had spent part of my career defending them, and I was frequently astounded, often appalled, and occasionally overwhelmed by the monumentally idiotic things they did. The plea bargain was contrived on the very premise that most criminals are just too mortally ignorant to even waste a trial over.
Regardless of what had shaped or perverted Jason Barnes’s character, he was different. As far as we knew, he came to the arts of larceny and murder a stone-cold virgin. Yet he had come so far, so fast. His were crimes of passion, yet exhibited none of the telltale rashness, disorder, or carelessness that nearly always define that criminal breed. He had made none of the usual beginner’s mistakes, or even a mistake one might expect from a hardened veteran. Up against the very best American law enforcement had to offer—the best coppers the world had to offer—he was running circles around them.
Unbelievable.
I wondered what Jason had up his sleeve for his next move. I couldn’t even guess. But if—as Jennie was convinced—a man’s past is the chronicle to his future, it was going to be something else.
I was about to find out.
CHAPTER TWENTY - EIGHT
HALFWAY ACROSS KEY BRIDGE, SHE CALLED AND SAID, “GO STRAIGHT TO Seven Corners.”
“And you go straight to hell.” Assuming she was observing me on Candid Camera, for good measure, I gave her another bird.
“Yeah? Well, who’s the one drivin’ ’round in his undershorts with a bomb under his ass?”
Good point. “Hey, I’ve got an idea, lady. Give yourself up. I’m a lawyer—maybe I’ll keep your ass from frying in an electric chair.”
