by Steve Richer
“What, Rogan?”
“What the hell does Hyperion Foxtrot Protocol mean?” She laughed. “Does that mean you don’t know or that you don’t want to tell me?”
“I’m afraid it’s no big secret that will change the meaning of life.”
“Then tell me.”
“It’s simply a code word we established. It means the President is in danger and is no longer in control. Once there’s any mention of it on the web or any other SIGINT, people like me jump into action.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it. Hyperion refers to the President, other people have other codenames, and Foxtrot refers to that loss of control I mentioned. There are other codes, such as Hyperion Echo Protocol would mean the President is under duress, that everything he says can’t be trusted. Hyperion Delta Protocol is about the President having been infected with a disease, and so on.”
Rogan nodded. “Do you have a codename?”
“I’m not that important. I’m just hired help.” She winked at him and turned back toward the road. “You’ll want to make a right here.”
He almost burst out laughing, recalling how she used to do that all the time. She used to tell him where to go, how fast to drive, when to pass other cars. He used to hate it and it was only because he loved her so much that he never said anything. But now it was soothing to have her say that, like sinking into a warm bath.
Chapter 35
The Blooming Sunflower Home assisted living facility was just on the outskirts of town. It was a newer construction which looked halfway between condominiums and a strip mall. However, what it had going for it was its location on several acres of rolling hills, with century-old oak trees dotting the landscape.
“You think they actually have sunflowers growing in the summer?” Rogan asked.
Shiloh didn’t answer but he supposed there were. It was time to put his game face on. After a couple of days of dodging killers he was back in the skin of an FBI agent. He even had a new 9mm Heckler & Koch P2000 clipped to his hip, courtesy of Shiloh and her well-stocked safe house.
With so little to go on, they would have to rely on basic investigation techniques. There were only two things they were sure of now. One, the President had killed his wife. Two, he had done so to save the life of his daughter who’d been kidnapped. If they found her and the kidnappers they’d have a chance to get to the bottom of this.
“Park over there,” Shiloh said, pointing at an empty space in the visitors’ section.
He groaned but kept his mouth shut. A few seconds later they got out of the car and entered the building.
The lobby gave off a sense of a roadside hotel crossed with a suburban hospital. It smelled clean, like floral-scented antiseptic, but the area had some potted plants and nondescript artwork on the walls. It really looked like every Hampton Inn Rogan had ever visited.
“This way,” he said, looking at the reception desk.
There were two people sitting behind the high desk. One was a chubby middle-aged woman in a nurse uniform designed not to look like a nurse uniform. The other was an older black man in a dark blue jacket. He was obviously security.
“Good morning, I’m Special Agent Rogan Bricks with the FBI. This is my partner. We’d like to talk to someone about Andi Wiebe.”
“Okay, let me punch this into the ol’ computer…”
The woman was decidedly chipper this morning and Rogan noticed the gigantic mug of coffee next to her. Yes, that would do it, he thought. The security guard barely gave them more than a passing glance while the receptionist typed.
“Oh,” she yelped.
Instinctively, Rogan craned his neck to glance at her screen. He saw a red flash highlighting a line of text. The two employees glanced at each other.
“Excuse me for a moment.” The woman grabbed the phone and dialed a three-digit number. “Yes, this is the reception. I have people from the FBI about Ms. Wiebe.”
She hung up and Rogan looked at Shiloh. They were both thinking the same thing. The woman had probably called her supervisor and with their luck this guy was somehow involved with the group. It wasn’t a stretch to think he was calling a hit squad right now.
“It’ll be just a minute,” the receptionist said with a nervous smile.
“Who did you call, your manager?” Rogan asked. “Where’s his office?”
He began walking around her desk and down a long corridor.
“Sir, please wait,” the security guard said, standing up.
“Please stay right there,” Shiloh ordered with an American accent, definitely sounding authoritative.
She kept an eye on the security guard but took a few steps back to watch Rogan walking down the hallway.
Rogan went by a large room but didn’t pay any attention to it. He could hear a TV among some chatter. Finally, at the end of the hall a door opened and a woman came out. She was in her 30s, dressed severely in a tweed pantsuit and her hair was in a visibly uncomfortable bun. They were on a collision course.
“Excuse me, are you the manager?”
“Amy Lander, I’m the assistant director. I’m in charge on weekends. You’re here about Andi Wiebe?”
Rogan flashed his badge and identified himself as FBI. By the time this was done Shiloh was by his side. The security guard trailed behind her but the supervisor waved him off.
“I think we should talk in my office.”
“Good idea.”
What struck him about the woman was that she looked bored, not especially nervous. That was a good sign. They went into her office, a cramped area just large enough for her desk, two chairs for visitors, and some free space for a wheelchair. She closed the door and invited them to sit down.
“I understand you’re here about Andi Wiebe?”
“That’s right.”
Ms. Lander nodded as she took place behind her desk. “I was wondering when someone would show up. It’s been such a tragedy what’s happened.”
“Horrible,” Rogan said, pulling out his pen and notepad.
“Usually our facility deals with members of the Secret Service.”
“Right, but under the circumstances there’s somewhat of an interagency kerfuffle.”
Rogan said that with a grin, almost winking. Almost flirting. And it worked, the woman smiled, warming up to him.
Shiloh picked up on it and was careful not to roll her eyes. “Ms. Lander, we’ll need to see Andi’s room.”
“Of course. Any particular reason why?”
The manager stood up and the others followed her out of the office.
“We want to take a look though a forensics team will come by later for a deeper examination.”
They walked down the hall and took a left. The place looked like a cozier hospital wing with doors everywhere.
“Are you sure this is all right? Maybe I should call the Secret Service first. That’s what I’ve been instructed to do.”
Shiloh smiled at her and gently put a hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be fine, I promise.”
The woman stopped at last in front of a door and opened it. It was unlocked. She turned on the light but it was unnecessary because a wide window opened on the rolling hills in the back. It was almost completely devoid of snow.
The room itself was a decent size. There was a single bed with a Disney bedspread. There were cartoon posters on the wall and a bin of toys by the window. There had to be 30 stuffed animals randomly displayed.
Rogan slowly walked around and Shiloh did the same. He ran a finger on the pink dresser. There was no dust. She opened a closet and found a hamper with a few discarded T-shirts, all pink.
“No signs of a struggle.”
Amy Lander perked up. “Struggle? Of course not.”
“When did Andi Wiebe disappear?” Rogan asked.
“Disappear? Oh, I think it was Monday morning.”
Rogan wrote this down. “And at what time did you report it? What agency did you call? Secret Service?”
The manager frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Coming closer, Rogan was seething. “This isn’t rocket science, lady. You’re responsible for these people, it’s your job. When somebody gets kidnapped you don’t waste time and you get on the fucking phone!”
She was again confused. “Kidnapped? Andi wasn’t kidnapped. She went on vacation. The…” She lowered her voice and looked around to make sure no one would overhear. “The Secret Service took her to Camp David. I assume after what happened last Tuesday, that’s why they brought her back the next morning.”
“You mean she’s here?” Shiloh asked.
“Of course.”
Chapter 36
It was like Rogan had been punched in the gut. He had trouble breathing.
“She’s here, Andi Wiebe is here.”
“Yes. On Wednesday morning she was brought back. She’s watching TV right now.”
Ms. Lander walked out and the two others followed her down the hallway. They went to the TV room Rogan had glimpsed on the way in.
There were 20 people with ages ranging from the teens to the 80s. Some people were in good shape in spite of being in wheelchairs, some of them were reading books, while others were rocking back and forth and drooling. Half a dozen nurses were caring for residents.
“This is her over there.”
The manager pointed to a young woman with long blond hair. She was sitting on the floor, on her haunches with her ankles spread wide, watching cartoons on an iPad. She was dressed from head to toe in pink sweats. She was 21 but the way she was giggling at the screen it wasn’t hard to believe she actually had the mental age of a three-year-old, as Gerald Butrymowicz had mentioned.
“Poor girl…” Shiloh whispered to herself.
“I don’t know what the plan is to tell her about her father,” the manager said. “With all the confidentiality agreements we all signed, I don’t even know if any of us can tell her. I’m not sure if she would understand.”
Rogan barely heard her. The fact that the kid was alive was destroying his entire investigation. It was actually kind of genius, he had to admit. They had really kidnapped the girl, pretending to be Secret Service, they had blackmailed President Rudd, and given his daughter’s condition there was no way she could rat them out so they had brought her back after he had killed his wife.
“Does she talk?” Rogan asked. “I mean, could she help us identify the people who held her? Where she was taken?”
“She talks about colors and the sounds of animals.”
Without warning, Ms. Lander walked further into the room until she was kneeling next to the blonde.
“Hey, Andi. What are you watching there?”
“The animals,” she said in a surprisingly deep voice. “There’s the cow and the dog who goes woof woof.”
Shiloh crouched next to them. “Hi, my name is Shiloh. Do you like to travel?” The girl shrugged. “Did you just go on a trip with some people this week?”
“I had ice cream! There was chocolate and ‘nilla and pink ice cream! I love the pink ice cream!”
“And do you remember where you went to eat this ice cream.”
She shook her head.
“Could you tell me what the people who were with you looked like?”
She shook her head again. Rogan had questioned enough kids to know when there was no more information to gather. He caught Shiloh’s gaze and made her understand this was hopeless.
But Shiloh grinned. “Ms. Landers, I don’t suppose you have security footage of the past several days, do you?”
“Uh yes but… I don’t know…”
Rogan took the lead. “We can come back with a warrant in an hour. But I’m sure you understand with what’s going on, the President being in prison, his daughter being here, your facility could turn to a media circus if we don’t act fast.”
“Yes, of course. We don’t want that.”
Her serious attitude, so well established with her tight bun and tweed suit, was back. She walked out of the playroom and the others followed.
The security guard was standing in the middle of the hallway, visibly on edge, like he knew he should be doing something but wasn’t sure if he was allowed to.
“Everything all right, Ms. Lander?”
“It’s fine,” she replied. “In fact, we’re going to the security office, we need your help.”
“Sure thing, ma’am!”
The man had a limp and Rogan had him pegged as a former cop on disability, but not military. He led the way around a corner and he unlocked a door. He moved sideways to let everyone in before closing the door again.
“What can I help you with?”
“Surveillance footage,” Rogan said, making a show of hooking his badge to the front left pocket of his pea coat, once again courtesy of Shiloh’s safe house. “How far back do you keep the tapes?”
The guy looked at the manager for guidance and she nodded that it was okay to speak.
“The videos are kept in the system for a month, computer erases them after.”
He went to a desk where there were three large computer screens and each was split in six squares, displaying the feed from the various cameras on the grounds. The others piled in behind him.
“All right, any cameras in the rooms?”
“No, not since… the incident.”
The guests turned toward Ms. Lander who shrugged. “We’ve had some privacy issues and threats of legal action.”
The guy said, “The cameras cover just the hallways and common areas.”
“Okay, can you show me the lobby on Monday morning and we’ll fast-forward from there.”
The older gentleman brought a keyboard closer to the edge of the desk, put on his reading glasses, and laboriously typed with two fingers the requested date before mousing over to the appropriate file.
The footage filled the center screen, a nearly monochrome view of the lobby with the reception desk smack dab in the middle. He clicked the fast-forward icon and the images sped up.
Whenever someone appeared in the frame, the guard hit Play and waited for Rogan or Shiloh to tell him it wasn’t who they were looking for. But finally, at 9:14am on the timestamp, they saw Andi.
She was seated in a wheelchair, bundled in a heavy coat and scarf, but the pink teddy bear on her lap was a dead giveaway.
“That’s her,” Shiloh said.
Rogan was about to ask the security guard about any special features to zoom in and enhance the picture but it was unnecessary. There were two other people in the frame and he knew them very well.
The man pushing the wheelchair was Albert, the guy who had delivered him to Murder Airways. The woman walking next to them, looking around suspiciously, was Special Agent Cass Carranza.
Chapter 37
“Do you still have any doubts that your lover is involved?”
Rogan nearly swerved off the road as they got onto I-95 and turned north back to Washington.
“She’s not my lover, Shiloh. One night does not a lover make. It was circumstances and fatigue that got us into the same bed, nothing more.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Do you believe she’s not on our side now?”
“Yeah, I have her pegged as a world-class cunt.”
“You don’t have to be rude about it,” the British woman said, her lips tipping into a smile.
“She didn’t have to shoot at me either and lie to me for a week. Hell, you think she was working for these bastards five years ago when I knew her?”
“Haven’t got the foggiest but it’s entirely possible.”
He gripped the steering wheel harder and focused on the road. The same classic rock station was on but he didn’t even hear it. All he could think about was how their best shot to solve this case had been entirely destroyed. If there was no kidnapping victim then there was no kidnapping to investigate.
Finally he said, “What if we put out an APB on Cass and Albert? We bring them in and you go Guantánamo on
them. They spill the beans, we get to the bottom of this, and I can go home again to see my dog.”
“You have a dog?”
“Golden retriever, Glut. Don’t put anything in front of him that you don’t want to see inside his stomach. He’s a peach. But what about my plan?”
“Won’t work.”
“I love your optimism, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart please.”
“You used to love it when I did.”
“I used to be paid to love it,” she shot back.
“Ouch.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I really did love you, Rogan.”
“Fine, whatever. Why won’t my plan work?”
“Firstly, we have to find these people. After last night’s event they’ll most likely have gone to ground. And if we ever did manage to locate them – apprehend them, even – they would never talk.”
“There are ways,” Rogan said, recalling some of the things he had seen in Iraq, things he wished he could forget.
“I’d wager there are so many cutouts and middlemen that any information they would give us would be worthless anyway. No, we have to find a better approach.”
“Shit.”
A Steely Dan song came on and it was so upbeat that Rogan turned off the radio completely. He didn’t want to be happy right now. He wanted to channel his anger.
“Hey, I liked that song.”
He knew she was teasing because through their marriage she’d only ever been a rap fan. She had even insisted that the first dance at their wedding be to Snoop Dogg’s Sensual Seduction. That took a serious level of commitment that he was sure couldn’t be faked.
“Let’s think about this from the beginning again,” he said. “How does any of this make any sense?”
“All right, what do we have to go on?”
“President Rudd kills his wife in front of all of Congress, in front of millions of TV viewers. Why?”
“Because his secret illegitimate daughter was being held by faction members. They blackmailed him into doing it.”
“But why? Why would the group want his wife dead? Is this about the First Lady in spite of everything? Are we looking at this the wrong way?”
