The Firefly

by P. T. Deutermann

  The redheaded driver, who had a bloody nose and the beginnings of a shiner, was kneeling by Lucy’s head as he fished out a radio and started calling someone. His seat belt must have failed, too, Swamp thought. Then he saw that .357 down under the accelerator pedal. Seeing the gun and realizing that both of them were out of the vehicle gave him an idea. The engine was still running, the lights still flashing up top, and the left front wheel looked like it would still roll. He had no idea of where they had been taking him, but wherever it was, it wouldn’t get him to the Royal Kingdom Bank and face-to-face with the bastard who’d fired the mortar. Assuming that’s where he’d run back to. But either way, he knew these two would never believe him, so he decided to stop wasting time and go get the murdering bastard himself.

  He slipped into the driver’s seat without closing the door, got the gun out of the way of the pedals, and dropped the shift into reverse. The car backed right away from Lucy and the driver, who looked up in astonishment. Swamp popped it in drive and hit the gas, watching the agent reach for his gun, then realize that it must be in the car. Lucy, obviously still out of it, just stared at him. He drove around them, fishtailing and scattering broken glass and pieces of fender, went three blocks, and then turned off Independence at the next corner. Which is when red lights appeared all over the instrument panel and the engine made a shrieking sound just before the car shuddered to an ominous, jerking stop.

  Swamp retrieved the gun from the floor and then spotted Lucy’s purse, its contents spilled all over the seat. He grabbed her credentials folder and then piled out of the ruined vehicle and looked around. He saw the Capitol South Metro station one block away. His Rover should still be in the parking lot. He stuffed the gun into his waistband, covering it with his coat, and put her credentials into a pocket. Then he walked as fast as his aching legs could go toward the station, aware of the cop cars that were whizzing by on their way to and from the Capitol area. He climbed a low barrier to get into the nearly empty Metro lot and saw his Rover. He patted his pockets for keys, but they were gone, as was his wallet. He swore and then remembered he had a spare key in a magnetic box under the trailer hitch. He found the key and let himself in, then took a minute to think out his next move. He saw the fancy Agency cell phone unit and remembered that it had a button for serious trouble. But what would happen if he pushed that button now? Had Lucy’s driver managed to alert the entire federal law-enforcement apparatus that he was a fugitive? That he had been in the building from which the attack had come? Was he a suspect?

  And the tags—Bertie had said they were satellite tags. He got back out and examined the license plates, but he could see nothing on them or near them. Two more cop cars went roaring by the Metro lot, lights and sirens blazing. A third, seeing the disabled federal vehicle, slowed to a stop and then backed up to have a closer look. Swamp realized he couldn’t stay here, nor anywhere in plain view. Lucy and her driver would have assets coming fast. Once the car was identified, they’d all be looking for an ugly man, limping away on foot.

  Okay—boogie time. He didn’t know where he stood with the Secret Service, but he did know what his objective was, and that was to get to that goddamned Arab bank.

  He had to push his way through the lot’s flimsy ticket barrier, but then he got back out to Independence and blew down the empty avenue as fast as he thought he could go without attracting police attention. When he got to Thirteenth Street, he turned right and headed north, across the Mall and across Constitution, where the District cops clustered around the major intersections were no longer inspecting cars. They waved him and a few other civilian cars through, as if anxious to get everyone out of the downtown area. There was almost no traffic higher uptown as he went left on P Street and drove the two blocks down to the Royal Kingdom Bank. As he got halfway down the block from the bank building, he pulled the Rover to the side of the street and shut it down.

  He pulled the mirror over and examined his battered face. He used a packet of Kleenex from the glove compartment to clean himself up a bit. There was nothing he could do about his clothes, which were a mess of plaster dust and soot and which still stank of gasoline smoke. He could see the entrance to the bank, but the security people were not in evidence. A large black Mercedes was parked out front, but there was no other sign of activity.

  He knew what he was supposed to do—hit that emergency button on the Agency’s cell phone and then wait for the cavalry. If the cell phone still worked, call into Operations Control at Langley, tell them that the guy who had mortared the inauguration was the managing director of the Royal Kingdom Bank. Except he didn’t know the number for the Agency’s OpCon center. Okay, call the Secret Service control center, a number that every agent knew by heart. Ask for massive backup and then wait for the entire Secret Service to arrive.

  Except that it wouldn’t. Lucy’s driver would have called in with an “agent down” report and what he would describe as the hijacking of a Secret Service vehicle by a rogue agent. In a very few minutes, if not already, the streets around the Mall would be aswarm with agents and District cops looking for him. They had already found the damaged Secret Service vehicle. His only chance was to go into that bank and hope like hell that his emirship had come back here after what he’d done. It was a reasonable possibility: This bank probably had some kind of diplomatic immunity, unless he’d run for the embassy itself. So, get in there, find out if he’s there, grab the son of a bitch, try to restrain yourself from killing him, and then call into Operations Control. He patted the Sig in his waistband, zipped up the jacket, and got out of the car. Then, just to make sure, he leaned back in and smacked the panic button on the cell phone. A red light came on and stayed on. Good, he thought. Something’s working.

  Ignoring all his protesting joints and muscle spasms, he walked straight up to the front doors of the bank, but they were locked. A small brass sign inside one of the windows said CLOSED. He looked up and found the security camera pointed right at him, its tiny red light clearly visible. He extracted Lucy’s credentials, which displayed a Secret Service badge and a picture ID, and held them up for a second where the camera could see them, but not long enough for the operator to zoom in on the actual picture.

  “Secret Service,” he declared in his most authoritative voice. “Open up, please.”

  A moment later, the door was being unlocked and one of the young men he’d seen before was backing away as Swamp pushed through the door. The two German security guards were standing at one end of the lobby, hands held tensely inside their coats. Swamp stopped and looked pointedly at those hands. The two guards straightened up and withdrew their hands from their jackets, but they didn’t move.

  “I want to see the managing director,” Swamp announced. “Right now.”

  A second young assistant came out into the lobby. Four against one, Swamp thought, measuring the angles.

  “May I inquire as to the purpose of your visit, sir?” the first assistant asked, taking in Swamp’s disheveled clothes.

  “You may not,” Swamp said. “U.S. Secret Service Agent Morgan wants to talk to him. That’s all he needs to know.”

  The second man looked again at Swamp’s clothes. He appeared to be older and better dressed than the others, and he had a tiny radio or cell phone in his hand. “And the other officers, the ones who were with you the last time?” he asked. “Where might they be today?”

  “On their way,” Swamp said. He pushed past the first assistant and headed for Mutaib’s office. One of the guards reached inside his suit jacket again, and Swamp drew the gun, a Secret Service standard-issue Sig Sauer .357. He was suddenly aware that he hadn’t checked to see if it was chambered. He put his back to a counter, swept the lobby with the muzzle, and surreptitiously felt for the extractor, which protrudes slightly on a Sig .357 if it’s chambered. He couldn’t be sure.

  The four men in the lobby froze when Swamp drew the gun. He waved them all to get in front of him and then motioned them toward Mutaib’s ornate offi
ce door. The assistant with the cell phone surreptitiously began to key in numbers. Swamp saw it but didn’t do anything, because, if he remembered correctly, there would be no service. Especially now. He lined himself up in front of the door and told one of the men to open it. They all just looked at him.

  “Open that goddamned door,” Swamp growled. His fleeting vision of uncounted injured or dead Americans under all those white sheets up on Capitol Hill put something in his voice that made the man nearest the door grab the handle and push the door open.

  “Now, single file. Go in. You first. And if I can’t see your hands, I’ll shoot whatever part of you I can see.”

  The man with the cell phone backed into Mutaib’s office, followed in turn by the two security guards and then the younger assistant, all of them holding their hands out in plain sight. The office was empty.

  “Where’s your boss?” Swamp asked, eyeing a single closed door in one corner of the office. He got shrugs and sideways looks all around.

  “You,” he said to one of the security guards, “open that door and step away from it.”

  “It is just the emir’s private lavatory,” the older assistant said. “There is no one in there.”

  Swamp stared at the security guard and then raised the .357. “If there’s no one in there,” he said, “then you won’t mind if I do a little reconnaissance by fire, will you?” He aimed the gun at the wooden door, but the security guard moved quickly to open it, only to find that the door was locked.

  “Tell him I will start shooting through the door if he doesn’t come out right now,” Swamp said, moving across the room to a position from which he could cover them and better carry out his threat. The security guard spoke softly in Arabic, and a moment later, the door swung open and Mutaib came out. He was dressed now in traditional Saudi garb, and he blanched when he saw Swamp’s gun.

  “I say,” he began, but Swamp told him to shut up. He ordered everyone in the room to get down on their knees and put their hands behind their heads, including Mutaib. In that instant, he saw the security guards exchange glances, and he pointed the gun at the space between them and pulled the trigger. The gun produced the snapping sound of an empty chamber. The instant the security guards heard that, they both drew their weapons as Swamp racked the slide while doing a drop and roll in the direction of Mutaib’s huge desk. As soon as he could focus on the security guards, he opened fire, dimly aware that they were both already shooting at him. The room was filled with the sound of gunfire, and he felt more than heard the hornet sounds of bullets around him as he let his years of annual qualification training take over. Lying prone now on the rug, part of his body protected by the desk, he maintained an iron-fisted two-handed grip while he fired in quick succession at the two blurred figures still standing on the other side of the room, not stopping until they weren’t standing anymore.

  He checked his gun and saw that the slide was still closed. He didn’t know how many rounds he had, but there was at least one left. His face and neck were covered in mahogany splinters as he heard a wet cough come from the other side of the room. He then rolled as fast as he could toward the still-open office door. Staying down on the floor, he saw that both security guards were down, the fronts of their suits covered in dark stains. The two assistants were huddled together against the far wall, arms over their white faces, hands buried in their hair.

  Mutaib had vanished, but then Swamp saw the open French door. He got up, rushed to where the filmy curtains were dancing, and looked out. Mutaib was already across the small parking lot behind the bank, opening the door to what looked like an armored, silver Mercedes. Swamp didn’t hesitate. He quickly knelt down at the window, rested the gun on the sill, and took careful aim. Mutaib must have sensed it, because he looked back over his shoulder at the window. Swamp fired once, his last round, as it turned out. He aimed for Mutaib’s midsection but hit him in the throat, spinning the Arab sharply back against the glistening car. Then the banker slid down onto the pavement and proceeded to generate a lake of blood, arms and hands out at his side, as if in astonished supplication.

  Swamp pulled his head back in from the billowing curtains and pointed the now-empty gun at the two quivering assistants. They both still had their eyes closed, and it was obvious they were fully cowed. The breeze from the open window started to clear the air of gun smoke as Swamp picked up the telephone to call for some backup. But the phone was dead. As he was trying to figure out what to do next, he heard vehicle sounds out front and then the front doors of the bank were banging open, followed by the sounds of several people running across the lobby. He reversed his grip on the gun so that he was holding it by the barrel as the first agents rushed into the room, all pointing either handguns or submachine guns in his direction. A full dozen of them spilled through the doorway before the tactical supervisor realized Swamp was holding his gun out for someone to take. Everyone froze for a moment, and then one agent came across the room and snatched it out of his hand while three others went over and stuck guns in the faces of the assistants, one of whom was now crying. Then Lucy VanMetre and Carlton Hallory came into the room, both of them brandishing handguns, as well.

  “Where’s Mutaib?” Lucy asked. One side of her face was puffy and bruised, and her normally immaculate clothes were rumpled.

  “He’s dead,” Swamp said. He pointed to the open window. “Out there.”

  She put a hand to her mouth and looked over at Hallory. Then she asked what had happened.

  “Well, Lucy, that dead Arab out there was the son of a bitch who fired those ten rounds into the Capitol this morning.”

  “Not possible,” Lucy said, gesturing in his direction with her gun. The other agents, sensing trouble, began to ease out of any possible lines of fire.

  “Oh yes it is,” Swamp said. “I was there, remember? And I physically saw him do it. From about ten feet away.” He pointed to the blowing curtains, where two agents were already peering through the window. “That guy, out there. He even spoke to me. ‘Hello, old chap. Remember me?’ I figured he’d come back here. Foreign bank, maybe diplomatic immunity. Call the embassy, which would get him out of town. That’s why I came here. To arrest his ass. Those two started the shooting, and then that bastard went out the window. But it was him.”

  All the agents in the room were just staring at him now. Hallory raised a radio to his mouth and started talking quietly. Lucy walked past him to the window, looked out, and swore. “This isn’t possible,” she said again.

  “It was this morning. That guy was your mortar man.”

  “Sir,” one of the assistants said in a tiny voice.

  Lucy turned to look at him. It was the younger man, and he had visibly urinated in his trousers. “What?” she snapped.

  “The emir? He was here all morning. He was here, in this room. We watched the…the incident on the television, but he was here. Right here.”

  Lucy turned to look back at Swamp, who felt the first twinge of uncertainty. “You are in such deep shit,” she said to Swamp. “And you are never going to get out of it.”

  “I don’t care what his minions say,” Swamp replied. “I know what I saw. It was him in that town house. Him or his identical twin brother.”

  “Get those two out of here,” she ordered, pointing to the cowering assistants. “And remove the bodies. Make sure you clear the street of civilians before you bring anyone out.”

  Four agents grabbed the two assistants and manhandled them to the door and out into the lobby, while four more began dragging the two dead security guards across the rug. Two stepped through the French doors to see about Mutaib. The rest went out front to clear the street. Hallory finished talking on the radio, watched for a moment as the agents cleared the room, and then spoke for the first time, asking the tactical supervisor, the only agent remaining, to give them a moment. He closed the office door behind them and then dropped into one of the armchairs. Lucy exhaled noisily and leaned against a wall, looking at Hallory. She was still
holding her weapon. Swamp suddenly needed to sit down, but he wasn’t sure what would happen if he moved. Hell with it, he thought. He pulled Mutaib’s executive chair out from behind the desk and sat down with a groan.

  “Okay,” Hallory said. “Now we can talk.”

  Lucy started to shake her head.

  “No,” Hallory said. “We have to tell him. This”—he pointed at the open French door—“this is really unfortunate.”

  “Unfortunate?” Swamp said. “Unfortunate? That bastard lobs mortar shells into the inauguration and kills how many people, and this is unfortunate?”

  Hallory was looking at Lucy. “We have to tell him,” he said. “He’s done his part. Now we have to tell him.”

  “We should wait,” she said. She looked at her watch. “Another five hours at least. No one outside the primary loop until midnight in Europe.”

  “Tell me what, for Chrissakes?” Swamp said, totally confused.

  Hallory gave him a sad, tired smile. It was the first sympathetic look he had ever seen on the executive’s face. “This Mutaib guy was one of ours,” he said. “He didn’t do the mortar attack.”

  “Goddamn it, I fucking saw him!” Swamp shouted.

  Hallory put up a placating hand. “No, you didn’t. But I think I know what’s happened.”

  Swamp felt his face getting red. “I saw that bastard out there drop ten rounds into the world’s biggest mortar. He burned the house down doing it. I was there! He had a fucking television in the room. I saw the rounds hit. I saw—”

  “What we wanted you to see, Mr. Morgan,” said Hallory interrupting Swamp and then pausing to let that sink in. “You and the rest of the world. The German fired ten rounds, but they never got there. They were BL and P rounds. That stands for blind-loaded and plugged. The ‘warheads’ contained plaster and a small bursting charge. When the rounds reached their apogee, they blew up into a cloud of plaster dust about four hundred feet in the air on the other side of the Capitol building.”