In all, he decided, he’d done a fair job. He’d made his mistakes, but that was life. He’d learned from them, however, and worked hard to base his decisions in that wisdom. Most of them, at least.
His own vice president was such a case. He’d never liked Phillip Martin, not when they worked together in the Senate, and not when his campaign advisors had put his name at the top of the list for vice presidential running mates. He’d argued against it, but in the end the choice was simple: Martin’s inclusion on the ticket would secure the votes Haverland needed to win. Of course, if the only issue had been victory, he would have told his advisors to shove it.
Quite simply, John Haverland believed in the power of service and he believed he could make a difference to the welfare of his country. Four years ago, Americans didn’t trust such sentiments. They were tired and mistrustful. Even so, by the time the election entered the final stretch, Haverland had changed a lot of minds. It still wasn’t going to be enough, his staff told him. Without Martin, we lose.
They had the statistics to support their claim. He reluctantly assented, and two months later he was elected president. Martin had played his role well enough, but the irony of their partnership was never lost on Haverland. He, the faithful, buck-stops-here president; and Martin, the polished, self-serving, chameleonlike vice president.
And now the son-of-a-bitch is making a run for the presidency.
“Not if I can help it,” he muttered. He pressed his intercom button. “Joanne, please call Vice President Martin and tell him I need to see him.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Martin arrived ten minutes later. He flashed his plastic smile at Haverland and strode across the carpet. “John, how are you today?”
“Sit down, Phil.”
Martin’s smile never faltered, but Haverland saw a flash of uncertainty in his VP’s eyes. The perfect political animal, Haverland thought. God help us. …
“Phil, I’ll come to the point: Your secretary has accused you of sexual harassment.”
“What?” Martin cried. “Peggy Manahan? That’s ridiculous, John. I would never—”
“In fact, Phil, what she describes sounds more like sexual assault.”
Martin chuckled. “Oh, come on. …”
“She claims you had her pinned against the wall, that you were pulling up her skirt.”
“That’s not true.”
“What part?”
“All of it, John. For God’s sake—”
“It never happened?”
“No.” Martin spread his hands. “She’s confused, John. Perhaps she had ideas about us. …”
Oh good Christ, Haverland thought. “So it never happened and Peggy Manahan, a solid, faithful White House employee for eighteen years is either lying, or she’s caught in the throes of an obsessive fantasy about you. Is that what you’re telling me?”
Martin smoothed out his tie. “I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating.”
“We’re well beyond insinuation, Phil. I believe her. I believe every word of it. But the truth is, this is my fault. I knew what and who you were when I brought you aboard. I buried it, called a lesser evil to do a larger good. But that’s crap. I put you where you are because I needed you to win. I put you in the running for the presidency.”
“That’s right! That’s exactly right!” Martin shot back. “And whether you believe it or not, I’ve earned it. Now it’s my turn. You’ve had your shot. Now I get mine!”
Haverland stared hard at Martin, gauging him, waiting.
Martin cleared his throat. “So where does this leave us? What are you going to do with this?”
“Nothing. I’ve spoken with Peggy. She’s retiring. It was her choice. She wants to get as far away from you as possible and forget it ever happened.”
“Good. Good for her. Best we all put this behind us.”
“Not quite, Phil.” Haverland reached into his drawer and pulled out a spiral-bound address book. He plopped it onto the desk. “This is forty year’s worth of names: CEOs, senators, ambassadors, PACs, jurists, lobbyists, newspaper editors, investment bankers. … Starting this afternoon, I’m calling in every marker I own. By this time next week, the tap on your campaign is going to start drying up.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Watch me.”
“Come on, John. Can’t we work this out—”
“No.”
“Without that money I haven’t got a chance in hell of winning!”
“Exactly. You don’t deserve the office. More to the point, America deserves better than you.”
Martin’s face turned purple. “You bastard! This is not fair! What gives you the right—”
Haverland stood up, turned his back on Martin, and walked to the window. “We’re done, Phil. Get out of my office. If there’s any justice, you’ll never see it again.”
Bhubaneswar, India
Sunil Dhar enjoyed his work. Kashmiri by birth, Dhar was more sympathetic to his Indian customers, but beyond that he was an equal-opportunity agent. Such was the beauty of his vocation. As long as the customer paid, their nationality and cause were of no concern to him.
This would be his second meeting with the client, and he’d chosen the café for its many exits and open facade. If there were watchers, he would see them. Not that he expected problems. His client seemed genuine in his intention, if not in his presentation.
The client certainly looked Japanese, but Orientals all looked alike to him. Even so, Dhar had dealt with JRA terrorists before, and there was something wrong with this one. But what? The man wasn’t with any police or intelligence agency; his network of contacts had told him that much.
If he’s not JRA, who is he? There were two likely scenarios: a rival group looking to insulate themselves should the transaction fail; or a go-between trying to establish cover for a larger operation.
Wheels within wheels, Dhar thought. His line of work was much more satisfying—not to mention simple. Most of the time, that is. This job would require some delicacy. Sarin was the king of nerve agents, so toxic it could kill a theaterful of people. He idly wondered what they (whoever “they” were) wanted it for, but quickly pushed the question from his mind. Not his business.
His client appeared on the patio and walked to Dhar’s table. “Welcome,” Dhar said with a smile. “Sit down. Can I order you some tea, something stronger, perhaps?”
“No. Do you have an answer for me?”
Dhar nodded. “What you want will cost a lot of money, but it is obtainable.”
“How much?”
“Seven hundred thousand, U.S.”
“That’s outrageous!”
“A bargain, I promise you. The product we’re talking about is well guarded. We’re talking about Russia, you realize. There are bribes, special transport requirements. … ”
The client hesitated for a moment. “Yes, I can see that. But you can get it? You’re certain.”
“If I weren’t, I wouldn’t have brought you here. In my line of work, customer satisfaction is a matter of survival. So, what is your answer?”
“Go ahead. We will pay you.”
Dhar slid a piece of paper across the table. “My bank and account number. Once you have deposited half my fee, I will start. I will call you in sixty days with an update. Only one thing remains. Where do you wish to take delivery?”
The man’s answer was immediate. “Russia, the port of Nakhodka-Vostochny.”
Dhar nodded. “Very well. I’ll begin.”
The man stood up and walked away.
Curious choice, Nakhodka, Dhar thought. So much easier to take it out via truck or plane. Why choose a harbor?
1
Washington, D.C.
Tonight was to be Jerome Morris’s first solo duty shift in Rock Creek Park, and before it was over he would find himself questioning his decision to trade his post at Shenandoah National Forest for the urba
n sprawl of the capital’s largest park.
A backwoods boy and third-generation cop from rural Georgia, Morris found the best of both worlds with the USPP: Not only did you get to catch bad guys, but you got to do it in some of the most beautiful places in the country.
Tonight, Morris was part of a two-officer team patrolling the West D-3 Station, which included the 1800 acres of Rock Creek, plus Meridian Hill, Fort Totten, and portions of the C&O Canal.
Morris’s radio cracked to life. “Station to Three-One.”
Morris keyed the handset. “Three-One.”
“Head on over to Pierce Mill, will ya? Got a report of a car in the parking lot.”
Probably kids making out, Morris thought. There were plenty of entrances and exits to the park and amorous teenagers rarely paid attention to signs. He’d give them a lecture and send them packing. “On my way.”
It took him ten minutes to get there; the Suburban handled the park’s occasionally rough roads well enough, but Morris was still unfamiliar with much of the terrain, so he took it slow. An accident on his first night wouldn’t do much to impress his supervisor.
He swung into the mill’s parking lot and his headlights immediately picked out a red Lumina sitting beside the waterwheel. Morris stopped, turned on his spotlight, and shined it on the car, expecting to see a pair of heads pop up from the backseat. Nothing happened.
Morris honked his horn. Still nothing.
“Three-One to Station, I’m ten-ninety-seven at the mill. I’m getting out to check.”
“Roger.”
Morris climbed out, clicked on his flashlight and undipped his holster strap. He didn’t like walking up on cars at night. No cop did. Too many things could go wrong—too easy to get ambushed.
Walking along the car’s rear panel, he shined his beam over the interior. Nothing in the backseat … There was a figure in the driver’s seat, though: a male, with his head resting on the headrest. He extended his flashlight away from himself to misdirect a gunshot should it come, then shined it on the driver’s face. “Sir, this is the Park Police.”
No response. Behind the glare of the flashlight, the man remained still.
Morris tapped on the glass. “Sir …”
Again there was no response. Now Morris felt the cold sheen of sweat on his face. Should he call backup? Maybe—Jesus, Jerome, just do it …
Very slowly, Morris reached out, lifted the handle, and opened the door. The stench of feces and urine washed over him.
Suddenly the man was moving, tipping toward him.
Morris backpedaled, fumbling for his gun. The flashlight clattered to the asphalt. The beam danced wildly over the car, then rolled to a stop, illuminating the man’s head. Still buckled in his seat, the man lay half out of the car, his arms touching the ground.
The top of his skull was missing.
The watch supervisor arrived four minutes later and found Morris squatting a few feet from the Lumina. “Jerome? You okay?”
“Yeah, Sergeant, I think so….”
“Just stay there, lemme take a look. You touch anything?”
“No … uhm, yeah, the door handle.”
The supervisor shined his flashlight over the man’s head and knew immediately it was a gunshot wound. The roof upholstery was covered with blood. A revolver lay on the floorboard below the man’s right knee.
“He’s been dead awhile, I guess,” Morris called.
“Why’s that?”
“No blood on the ground; any more recent and he would have bled when he tipped over. Plus, his ankles are fat.”
“Yeah, probably. Well, whoever he is, he picked one hell of a place to kill himself.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because we’re standing in the middle of a jurisdictional black hole, that’s why.”
While all national parks are overseen by the department of the Interior and its law enforcement body, the Park Police, a homicide on federal property tends to wreak havoc with standard procedure.
Within an hour of Morris’s initial call, the Lumina sat under the glare of five sets of headlights and was surrounded by the USPP Duty Commander, an investigator from the USPP’s Criminal Investigations Branch, a Special Agent of the FBI, a city Medical Examiner and, because Rock Creek’s roads and parking lots are regulated by metro traffic laws, a pair of patrol officers from the DCPD.
“The car’s got a government parking sticker,” the CIB investigator called to the FBI agent. “Commerce Department. Dead fed on fed property. Looking like yours, Steve.”
“Yeah.” The agent opened the glove compartment and extracted the registration. “Owner is a Larry Baker.” He handed it to one of the cops. “You wanna—What’s your name?”
“Johnson. My partner, Meade.”
“You guys wanna check the house?”
Meade, the rookie of the pair, took it. “Jesus, you don’t think he …”
“Hope not,” said the agent, “but it’s best we check.”
“Man drives away from home, parks his car, and blows his brains out … God.”
The agent understood Meade’s trepidation. Either Baker had come here so his family wouldn’t find him, or he’d come here because he’d done something at home he couldn’t bear seeing.
The address took the officers to Parklawn Drive, a neighborhood in Randolph Hills, three miles from Rock Creek. The Baker home was a two-story Chesapeake with a pair of maple trees bracketing the driveway. A bug zapper glowed purple on the front porch.
“No lights on inside.” said Meade. “Asleep, you think?”
“Yeah, probably,” replied Johnson.
They got out and walked to the door. Meade raised his finger to press the doorbell. Johnson stopped him. “Wait,” he whispered, then pressed his knuckle against the door and pushed. It swung open a few inches.
“Oh, shit,” Meade whispered.
Johnson pushed the door open until it bumped against the wall. Inside, the marble foyer was dark; beyond it lay a T-turn hallway.
Johnson keyed his radio. “Two-nine to dispatch.”
“Dispatch.”
“We’ve got an open door at our location. Request you attempt contact via landline.”
“Roger, standby.”
Thirty seconds passed. In the distance, a dog barked once, then went silent. The bug zapper sizzled. Inside the house they heard the distant ringing of a phone. After a dozen rings, it stopped.
Johnson’s radio crackled. “Dispatch, two-nine, no response landline.”
“Yep, we heard it. We’re going in.”
Johnson looked over at Meade, gave him a reassuring nod, then drew his gun and clicked on his flashlight. Meade did the same, then followed.
They turned right at the T and walked through the kitchen, dining room, and living room. All were empty. A side door led from the living room into the garage. Johnson peeked out, pulled back, and shook his head.
They retraced their steps out of the kitchen, past the foyer, and followed the hall to a set of stairs leading upward. At the top they found another hallway: two doors on the right, balustrade on the left. At the far end lay another door. Master bedroom, Johnson thought.
Moving by hand gestures, they checked the first two rooms. Bedrooms: ’N Sync and Britney Spears posters, toys scattered on the floor, colorful wallpaper and curtains … Kid’s rooms.
They moved on. At the last door they stopped. They glanced at one another. If there’s anything to find, Johnson thought, it’ll be here. He gulped hard, looked over at Meade, and gave him another nod.
Johnson turned the knob and pushed open the door. The room was black. The air smelled stale. There was another odor as well, but Johnson couldn’t quite place it. Like metal, he thought. Coppery. Even as his brain was identifying the odor, he tracked his flashlight across the floor to the bedpost, then upward.
What he saw made him freeze. “O sweet Jesus.”
Burdette, Maryland
/>
Charlie Latham jolted awake at the phone’s first ring. Part habit, part instinctual consideration for his wife, he rarely let a phone ring more than twice. “Hello.”
“Charlie, it’s Harry.” Harry Owens, a longtime friend of Latham’s, had recently been promoted to assistant director of the FBI’s National Security Division, which made him Latham’s boss. “Did I wake you up?”
Latham smiled; the joke was old between them. “Nah. What’s up?”
“Multiple murder. I think you’re gonna want to see it. I’m there now.”
Latham was wary. As head of the NSD’s Counterespionage/Intelligence group, he had little business poaching on a homicide; his bailiwick was spies and terrorists. “What’s going on, Harry?”
“Better you see it for yourself.”
“Okay. Give me the address.”
It took Latham twenty minutes to reach Randolph Hills. The driveway to the Baker home was filled with three DCPD patrol cars and a van from the medical examiner’s office. Strung from tree to tree in the yard, yellow police tape fluttered in the breeze. Robe- and pajama-clad neighbors gawked from across the street.
A cop met Latham on the porch, handed him a pair of sterile booties, a gauze beanie for his head, and latex gloves, waited for him to don them and then led him inside and up the stairs. Owens was waiting; his face was pasty. “Hey, Charlie.”
“Harry. Bad?”
“Pretty bad. Mother and two children.”
Latham had known Owens for seventeen years and he could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Owens so shaken. Still, that didn’t answer why he was here. “What is it?” Latham asked.
“Just take a look. I don’t want to put a spin on it. I need your eyes.”
He led Latham down the hall to the bedroom door, gestured for Latham to wait, then poked his head inside and waved out the Crime Scene people. “Go ahead, Charlie.”
Latham stepped through the door. And stopped.
The mother, an early forties redhead, sat in a hard-backed chair beside the bed. Her wrists were duct-taped to the chair’s arms, her ankles to the rear legs, so her thighs were stretched tight. Harder to rock the chair that way, Latham thought. She’d been shot once in the forehead. Behind her, the yellow bedspread was splattered in blood and brain matter.
Wall of Night Page 2
