by Brian Haig
From down the hall, by the bedrooms, came a really loud boom—we both recoiled from the shock. Another percussion or stun grenade went off, followed by more yells and more shots. A real battle was going on back there.
“Come on.” Jennie took my arm and pulled me along. I followed, a little dumbstruck. Outside and about fifty yards from the townhouse were parked two armored trucks, and we sprinted down the sidewalk and ended up taking cover behind the nearest one.
We stood for a moment, winded, a little unsteady. Then Jennie reached over and touched my face. Actually, not touched, she wiped. She said, “You’re bleeding a lot.”
Until that moment, I hadn’t realized that glass splinters from the porch door had sprayed me. Blood was streaming into my face from my scalp, and a quick visual inspection revealed a number of cuts on my chest, my arms, even my legs. Now that I realized they were there, they hurt like hell.
An agent dressed in an urban commando getup, a flak vest, and a royally pissed-off expression approached. He walked straight to Jennie, got two inches from her face, and barked, “What in the hell were you doing?”
“Getting my man out.”
“I told you, Agent, nobody enters till the Hostage Rescue Team gives the all-clear.”
“I recall that.”
“This was an outrageous breach of procedures. I could care less if you’re a supervisor. I’m gonna report this.”
Jennie looked at him, not giving an inch. “Go ahead. I told my hostage I’d guarantee his safety. I meant it.”
Mr. Macho saw this was going nowhere, apparently remembered he had a firefight on his hands, and stomped off in a nasty huff.
Did I suddenly feel bad, or what? I said, “You were coming in to get me?”
She did not reply.
I squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”
She looked very unhappy, distracted even, and I thought I knew what was going on here.
After a moment, I asked her, “Jason was your first kill. Right?”
“Yeah. My first kill. A man with his hands tied behind his back. I...well, I...” Her eyes became misty.
“It happens, Jennie. You couldn’t know his hands were tied behind his back. For all you knew, he had a weapon. Through the smoke and dust, that’s what your eye saw, and what your mind registered. In the heat of action, the eye overrules the mind, and the finger on the trigger doesn’t discriminate.”
She looked at me and said nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY - ONE
WITHIN THREE MINUTES, THE HOSTAGE RESCUE TEAM LEADER MUST’VE radioed out that the deed was done, because everybody suddenly relaxed. Actually that might be overstating it, but a few agents lit up cigarettes, and a few people wandered out into the open from behind the vans.
A forensics team was sent into the townhouse, followed closely by four teams of medical technicians bearing stretchers. Then lots of unmarked sedans filled with Johnny-come-latelies began pouring down the street. On their heels followed the ubiquitous TV news vans, prenotified, I guess, so the public could witness this effervescent moment in FBI history. But I wasn’t being judgmental—the Feds had bled and suffered for this one. What little credit was due, they deserved.
Somebody with bad manners in a gray suit kept ordering me into an ambulance. I insisted I was fine, and swore I could and would swagger out of here on my own two feet. It was all macho posturing from big bad Sean, of course. I get a little weird standing around in public in my undershorts.
Also, Jennie remained very hurt and uptight, staring off into space, absorbed in her own thoughts. I held her hand and I figured—no matter how silly—that I was helping her hold it together.
But the FBI has a lot of rules, and rule number one is follow all the rules. So somebody went and found the commander of the HRT, who approached me and said, “Drummond, right?”
“No. He’s the tall, good-looking guy wearing all his clothes.”
“One of those splinters fly into your brain or something?”
I checked my groin. “Nope.”
He laughed. “I heard you were crazy as hell. Listen, you did a good job. We appreciate it.”
“Aw, any dumbass could’ve done it.”
“My thoughts exactly.” He stopped smiling. “Now, are you getting into that ambulance or do I put your ass in?”
Through the corner of my eye I saw a few TV cameramen taking shots, and one was about ten feet away and just starting a sweep in our direction. Before I made Five O’Clock Live in my present condition, I stepped into the back of the ambulance.
I even got a ride in a wheelchair once we arrived at Arlington General and was hustled toward the operating room. A pair of young docs had a field day, digging shards of glass out of my skin and stitching me up. One even offered me the fragments, suggesting they would make a very memorable stained-glass mosaic. Another noted the scars from my old war wounds and remarked upon what a terrifically popular person I must be. They were very funny. Seriously.
I swallowed three aspirins, and one of the docs told me to wait thirty minutes for observation, in the event I had a sudden attack of common sense, unlikely as that might be. I was given a set of genuine surgeon’s scrubs to wear, which was pretty cool. I was assured it would be on my bill of course.
I was allowed to walk on my own out to the waiting room, and I found a chair off in the corner, where, for the first time in two days, I was alone and could think.
Starting from when Jennie picked me up at the George Bush Center for Intelligence, the past forty-eight hours had been like some Hollywood action movie at 78 rpm, a blur of gore, emotional chaos, and frantic confusion. I had seen enough death and misery for a lifetime, and those images were imprinted on my brain. I had set up four people to die, and I had a few misgivings about that. I had a lot to contemplate.
But there happened to be a TV perched on a nearby wall bracket, the evening news was on, and the shootout was the story of the hour, the day, and probably the month. I leaned back into my chair, put my feet up, and started watching, when a voice inside my head screamed, Hey idiot, you haven’t slept in two days.
Then somebody was shaking my shoulder, asking, “Hey—you all right?”
I saw Agent Rita Sanchez, holding two steaming cups of coffee, bless her heart. I had not a clue how long I had slept, nor was there a way to tell. In hospitals there is no day and no night.
Rita fell into the seat beside me. She handed me a cup, and I took a long sip. She informed me, “Jennie said you might need a ride home. She’s real busy right now.”
“I’ll bet.”
“How you doing?”
I could answer that two ways—honestly or not. So I lied. “Fine. Glad it’s over, glad the good guys won...”
She smiled knowingly. “You got postpartem blues. All that adrenaline gets pumped into you, then it just goes, like a petered-out balloon. I see it all the time.”
“You don’t see it this time.”
“I think I do.”
“I think you don’t. The knights slew the dragons, I’m glad.”
“Sure you are.” After a moment she added, “We’re gonna need a statement. You’re the only person who actually spent time with these people.”
“The only one who survived.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not the same thing.”
Rita detected that I was in a queer mood and decided not to press it. Changing the subject, she said, “They put up a hell of a battle at the end. The HRT guys said they fought like wildcats. The woman went down last. She ran out of the bedroom spraying her M16.”
“In fact, I was wondering about that.”
“About what?”
I looked Rita in the eyes. “Correct me if I’m wrong. It was my impression that the proper procedure in hostage rescue situations is to first warn the suspects they are surrounded, then offer to negotiate, and only if that fails...then assault by force.”
“There are times when we do it that way.”
“
Why wasn’t it done that way this time?”
“Tactical judgment.”
“I see. Well...what made this assault so different that it was decided to deviate from procedure?”
She matter-of-factly replied, “We have a standard template for making these calls. Assessment of the criminal mindset, prior experience with the perps, an evaluation of risk regarding our hostage—all these factors are carefully weighed and considered. That last point is always preeminent. The hostage is always our priority.”
I think she knew where I was going with this, and I don’t think she liked it. I informed her, “I can see where an undeclared assault might be justified, but here’s where I get confused. The Hostage Rescue Team managed to physically separate the hostage from the kidnappers. The Texans left me and Barnes behind and fled to the bedrooms. Yet the assault continued unabated. Why?”
After a moment, Rita said, “I make it a practice to never second-guess the decision of the team leader in contact. You should do the same. Those people saved your ass.”
“And I’m not ungrateful. But you see, Rita, I was surprised when the team rushed right past me. Nobody paused to check on me, untie me, or even evacuate me. Jason Barnes was equally ignored.”
She sort of shrugged. “I’m sure the team felt you were safe and the prisoner was secured. As I said, hostage safety is priority number one, followed by apprehension of the suspects.”
“What were the team’s orders?”
“What I stated. Secure the hostage, neutralize, then apprehend the suspects.”
“Their rules of engagement?”
“Use reasonable force. But this was an extremis situation, obviously. The killers were heavily armed, and I shouldn’t have to remind you of all people, they were vicious murderers. If you’re implying we sent that team in to assassinate those people, you’re wrong.”
“Good.” I examined Rita’s face. “I’d really be bothered to learn the team was sent in on a mission of vengeance.”
She did not reply to that point.
I continued, “Joan Townsend’s death doesn’t sit well with me. I’m sure it sat even less well with the men and women of the Bureau. I believe down to my soul that Hank, MaryLou, and Clyde deserved to die. But they deserved to end their lives on an electric chair after attempting to lie their way out of it, the God-given right of every American.” I paused for emphasis and added, “I would not like to believe I was no better than Jason Barnes, that I was part of a vendetta.”
She turned and looked at the far wall for a moment. Eventually she said, “Well, shit happens. You know what they say.”
“No, Rita, what do they say?”
“Live by the sword, die by the sword.”
After a moment I asked, “Is Jennie’s ass hanging out?”
“Not at all. She made a procedural error, running in there that way. But she put only herself at risk. The Bureau makes allowances for these things.”
This was news to me.
Rita continued, “She swore an oath to a volunteer hostage and risked her life to honor it. Actually, she’s a big hero now. She saved your ass, and our bacon. The Bureau don’t forget those things.”
“What about shooting Jason?”
“Yeah, there’ll obviously be an investigation on that. But with all the smoke and dust from the blast, Jennie said she couldn’t clearly observe her target. The HRT guys already gave statements that confirm how hard it was to see. The team leader said the thermal sensors were the only things that saved them from the same mistake. She just saw his face peering at her through the smoke and confusion, and she fired.”
“If you need another statement to support that, let me know.”
Rita nodded. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.”
I stood up and we began walking.
She said, “I never worked with Margold before. But you know what? She’s pretty good, a straight shooter.”
“Bad word choice.”
She laughed. “Right.”
CHAPTER THIRTY - TWO
AS YOU’D EXPECT, THE CASE DOMINATED THE HEADLINES FOR THE NEXT week. A lot of good people were dead, and a lot of important people needed to be buried with ceremonies appropriate to their fame and station in life. The city, and the entire country, had been caught in an emotional vise, and the aftershock was a huge sigh of relief, accompanied by the usual wave of prurient exposure.
So the Bureau dished out the story in dribs and drabs, a smorgasbord of the good with the bad; of course it was hard to recognize the bad after all the verbs, pronouns, and facts were adjusted and twisted a bit. It’s true that knowledge is power, especially when dispensed selectively.
I tend to be cynical about these things, for some reason.
On a happier note, my name and my role in the affair were kept out of it. When you sign on with the Agency—even as a loaner—you are guaranteed complete, ironclad anonymity. This works really well if you owe a lot of people money.
As you might further expect, the White House did its part to make this thing smell less like feces and more like roses. I particularly enjoyed watching Mrs. Hooper on one of those cable news talk shows, like Fox, I think. She recounted the unremitting pressure the President was under as the murderous toll mounted, and his overwhelming sadness since several of the dead were people he knew intimately, friends and colleagues. She described in tender detail how he reached out to their families and so forth. This part was both moving and touching. Maybe this part was even true.
Then, in all sincerity, she said to the anchor, “So the President pulled me into his office. This was the morning Mrs. Townsend was murdered. I’d...well, I’d never seen the President so calm...so committed...so...presidential. He said the killers had to be stopped. The American people had to be protected, no matter how drastic the action, no matter the cost to him politically. He told me to suggest to the FBI something entirely unorthodox. He said we had to arrange a trap.” And so on.
Not exactly how I remembered it. On the other hand, it sounded better than the truth.
I was a little unhappy when the President’s approval rating bounced up ten points, for, as I mentioned, I’m not his biggest fan. On the other hand, the guy going after his job looked like an even bigger putz, so maybe it was a wash.
Anyway, the President never called to thank me, and Rita never bought me the promised steak dinner. See how quickly they forget.
I should add that Phyllis gave me a week off, for mental recovery, she said. In fact, her final words to me were, “But I don’t mean that literally. I don’t really want you returning exactly the way you were. Understand?”
I understood.
So I lounged around my apartment for a week, read a few trashy novels, bought some new underpants, cheated my way through a bunch of Times crossword puzzles, threw water balloons off my porch, and got bored out of my wits. Mostly, I waited for Jennie to call. She never did.
For some reason, I didn’t call her either.
Okay, I called her office, three times. Elizabeth promised to give her the messages, but Jennie never returned my calls. Maybe she failed to get my messages. Maybe not.
So there I was, at the end of the week, walking through the entrance of Ferguson Home Security, mentally rested, physically healed, emotionally a wreck.
Lila was seated behind her desk, wearing a hot pink sweater that showed great cleavage. I didn’t even peek, or at least, I didn’t get caught. She smiled at me and said, “Welcome back. You’re late.”
I wasn’t in a smiley mood. “I wouldn’t be here at all if I hadn’t run out of coffee at home.”
“Nice suit, incidentally.”
“Thank you.”
“No, I mean it. You look really...good in a suit.”
What the...? Following her eyes to the far corner of the room, there hung a life-size blow-up of an idiot in nothing but his Hanes briefs standing beside an armored van. Attached was a banner reading, “Major Underpants Strikes Again.” Somebody had a sense of humor.<
br />
I smiled at Lila.
She smiled back.
I looked Lila in the eye and said, “Get rid of that picture.”
“On eBay...tonight.” She added, “By the way, three guests are waiting for you in the conference room.”
So off I went to the conference room, where indeed, three men in blue and gray suits and Phyllis with a pissed-off expression awaited. Phyllis tapped her watch and said, “You’re late.”
“Punctuality is the habit of the weak-minded.”
“I think you mean punctuality is the habit of those who want to keep their jobs.”
“Exactly.”
She introduced me to the three gentlemen, named Larry, Moe, and Shemp. Or perhaps they were named Larry, Bob, and Bill. I wasn’t in a particularly charitable mood.
Larry flashed an FBI shield and beamed a pseudo-smile. Bill and Bob shuffled their feet. Nobody mentioned it, but something in their shifty manner suggested they were from the Bureau’s equivalent of internal investigations.
This was better than a congressional subcommittee, but not much.
Larry appeared to be the ringleader—he invited me to sit, and he informed me that his team was cleaning up some loose ends and probing a few unresolved matters.
Nobody read me my rights, which is always a good sign. Larry glanced at Bob, and Bob put a tape recorder on the table. Bill reached forward and turned on the recorder. I’m not making this up.
Larry informed me, “This is an official testimony. Be accurate and truthful, as best you can. Speak clearly. Now recount for us your involvement in the case involving Jason Barnes.”
So I did.
About two dozen times, Larry, or Bob, or Bill interrupted to ask me to clarify a certain point or elaborate on some event. Three times Bob changed tapes, and Bill turned the recorder on and off each time. Seriously, I’m not making this up. But they were good listeners, and they had done their homework and seemed to be up to speed on what occurred, because they knew the right questions to ask and didn’t waste too much of my time.
