"It's been a long time since I dove, George. I'm out of practice."
"Gee, Jake. According to your file, you were certified as a Search and Rescue diver in the Navy as well as certified to operate underwater communications equipment."
"I was, but it's been probably ten years since I strapped on a tank."
"Eleven years, five months, and twenty-one days according to your Navy records. Still, it's like riding a bike, right?"
"You hacked my Navy records? What else did you hack? Wait. Don't tell me. Do you know where I'll be diving?"
"I pulled the pre-flood land survey records from the TVA from October of 1946 when they recommenced construction on the dam. The grave of Norman Albert Reese Jr. is depicted on the survey. The family refused to let the TVA or any authorities move their son's body. Old man Reese even knew the valley was going to be flooded before he buried his son there so he had a concrete vault installed with a metal lid bolted onto it. He didn't want his son floating up after the flood. He also put a large marker in the ground at the head of the vault. That's what you'll be looking for."
"How deep is it?" Jake asked.
"As best as I can figure from the topographic and water table charts, should be around sixty feet. Give or take a few feet. Also the water temperature could be as low as the upper 40's. Research indicates the visibility can range anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five feet so that is in your favor. Another thing, according to the topo charts, the knoll where Reese is buried is only about fifty feet from the shoreline so you might be able to shore dive."
"How much of this intel do you think Regan and her friend have?"
"I can't say for sure, but I think it's unlikely they have anything very precise. I think they'll have to search for the grave. It could take them a while to find it."
"What about lodging, are they staying someplace in Butler?"
"Again, don't know for sure. According to the hotel in Banner Elk, the room was booked for two nights. Paid in advance. In cash. I'll keep a tracker on her cell phone. See if they stay in Butler or return to Banner Elk. You know, if the coast is clear, you might want to consider diving tonight."
Jake turned the Tahoe onto Interstate 26 toward Johnson City. He was already thinking the same thing as Fontaine. If he could find the grave first then he would be a step ahead of Regan and her friend. It would also give him something far more important.
Control.
There was another option, he could always follow and locate Regan before she had a chance to make a dive. Confront her on dry land, expose her illegal activities, hopefully acquire whatever she found in the glacier, and then determine what she was retrieving from the graves. But a public confrontation carried with it the possibility of law enforcement involvement, which had to be avoided at all costs—for President Rudd's sake. He'd already had a run-in with the Charleston Police Department and the FBI, fortunately it was handled without consequence to the President. Until he knew what he was involved in, he needed to avoid any volatile situations. Confronting Regan and her friend in public could turn volatile fast.
"Tell you what, George. Unless Regan decides to go after it tonight, I'll be doing just that." Jake paused. "There wouldn't by chance be a dive light in that bag, would there?"
"Not one dive light, two of them. Along with one replacement battery."
"Looks like you thought of everything. Any thing else I should know before I let you go?"
"Couple of things, Jake." Fontaine said. "From what I've found on the Internet, most of the divers have reported a rather heavy layer of silt near the bottom of the lake. Up to eight feet deep in some places so stay away from the lake bed or you'll lose your visibility."
"What else?"
"I sent you some information on possible lodging in the Butler area. I hope it helps."
"Thanks, George. I'll take all the help I can get."
In Johnson City, Roxanne, the name he gave the woman's electronic voice from the GPS unit, instructed him to turn on U. S. Highway 321 to Elizabethton where he pulled over at a truck stop to take advantage of good cell phone reception. He wasn't sure how good the service would be in Butler.
He pulled his iPad from his backpack and downloaded the information Fontaine had sent him. He'd been thinking about lodging and decided to rule out campgrounds and B & B's because his comings and goings would be too noticeable. What he needed was a private place, preferably on the lake where he had quick access to the boat. A quick Google search under his favorite websites, VRBO.com and HomeAway.com, revealed nothing useful. Another search for fish camps, even though not as desirable, also turned up nothing. A third search under 'Butler, Tennessee lodging' hit pay dirt. Several sites he'd never heard of showed up but only one proved useful. He found several lakefront cabins but only one that wasn't booked. He figured it was because of the price, $450 a night. Most families weren't going to pay that price, especially this time of year during the middle of the week.
He called the number and secured the cabin from the owner for three nights using his Commonwealth Consultants credit card.
He plugged the cabin's address into his iPad and was pleased when he saw the cabin was just across Watauga Lake from the location Fontaine had identified as the site where Norman Reese was buried. Using his distance-measuring tool he realized the straight-line distance across the water was less than a mile. By road it was nearly fourteen miles from the cabin to the point where Reese was buried and another four miles to Butler itself. He needed to mull over the geographical logistics of his predicament. A visual of the area would help so he put the Tahoe in gear and pulled back on the highway toward Butler.
At the intersection of U. S. 321 and Tennessee State Road 67, Roxanne told him to turn left on SR 67, cross Watauga lake, and into Butler. The map on the iPad showed both the cabin and the grave site on the east side of the lake.
Jake wanted eyes on Regan and her friend first. The only way he could do that was with Fontaine's help. He pulled to the side of the road and called Fontaine.
Fontaine answered.
"Is Regan still in Butler?" Jake asked.
"According to her cell phone, she's at the Pizza Place and has been for the past fifteen minutes."
* * *
The waitress placed the pizza on the table and asked if she could get them anything else. Regan shook her head and thanked her. She pulled two pieces of pizza from the platter and placed them on her plate and did the same on Christa Barnett's plate.
She sprinkled pepper seeds and Parmesan cheese on her pizza then looked at Barnett. "When should we do this?"
"It'll have to wait until tomorrow. I can't do it by myself and I don’t want to throw your ass in the water until we've had a chance to go through all the equipment. And I'm certainly not taking you down at night. Not on your first dive."
"Oh hell no. I'm not going underwater at night period." Regan paused. "Maybe we should just skip this one. I was excited at first but now…I don't know. I'm kind of scared. What do we do if something goes wrong?"
"Relax, Ashley. It'll be okay, I promise. Nothing will go wrong. We bought the very best equipment. The full-face mask will allow you to breathe normal and the communications system will allow us to talk when we need to. I'll be right there by your side. Besides, it'll be fun."
"Should we put the stuff on and get in the pool tonight? Maybe that would help."
"Might draw unwanted attention," Barnett said. "The last thing we want is for someone to remember us."
"No, no. Of course you're right." The room lit up when the front door opened. Rays of sunshine blasted across the floor then disappeared as the door closed. Regan noticed Barnett wasn't paying attention. "Christa. You're not listening."
"Check this guy out. He is H-O-T."
Regan looked. A man with dirty blond hair, jeans and a long sleeve button down shirt walked behind Barnett toward the counter. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows and he had a five o'clock shadow on his face. "Not interested."
"Ar
e you kidding? He looks like Chris Pine. Makes for nice eye candy, right?"
"He's handsome, I guess. Hard to tell anymore. I haven't been on that side of the fence for a long time."
"Yeah, yeah, Ashley. Maybe it's time you gave men another try." Christa turned her head and watched the man while he placed his order at the counter. "Now that you and Sam are on the fritz, might be a good time to experiment."
As if she wasn't worried enough about scuba diving, Christa's remark certainly didn't help any. She was already concerned that Sam hadn't answered her phone in over two weeks. What if she'd moved out? Maybe back to Atlanta. Regan resolved that as soon as they were finished in Butler, she would go straight to Charleston or wherever Samantha Connors was, apologize, and try to reconcile with her.
* * *
Jake recognized both women from the photos. They were sitting together at a table sharing a pizza. The taller one, Ashley Regan, had long, thick brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, which was stuffed through the opening in the back of an Atlanta Braves baseball cap. Fontaine's report indicated she was 5' 7" tall but he couldn't judge her height while she was seated. She was very attractive but didn't fit the image he had in his mind.
Christa Barnett’s long black hair that didn't look natural compared with the rest of her facial features. He'd seen the photos Fontaine had sent him. Barnett was born a blonde, so the dark hair didn't compliment her tanned face. According to her file, she was an even five feet and barely topped a hundred pounds.
They were both wearing blue jeans and t-shirts.
Regan looked stressed, frown lines visible on her face from across the dining room. Barnett seemed to be reassuring her of something. He'd strategically selected his table and chair so he would be able to observe them while he ate. He noticed Barnett glance his direction several times and smile. Regan looked his way once and smiled, but it looked feigned.
His food came and he inconspicuously analyzed the two women while he ate. It was the visual threat assessment he needed to evaluate what he was up against and what, if any, element of danger the women might present.
The women finished eating first, paid the waitress, and left. Jake didn't move. He knew Fontaine would track their movements.
He made his decision.
Tonight, after he checked in with President Rebecca Rudd, he would make a dive to locate the grave of Norman Reese, Jr.
29
Evan Makley pushed the End button on his phone. He didn't know how to decipher the tone in President Rudd's voice. He discerned something different in her authoritative command. A sharp edge in her tone he wasn't accustomed to hearing. He glanced at his phone, 8:30 p. m. She didn't have anything on the schedule for the evening, and he would certainly know if she did, so something must have come up after he left the White House at 7:00.
He summoned his waiter, asked for a to-go box, and the bill. He'd eat the rest later, after he finished with Rudd. Her message was clear, "Drop whatever you're doing and get back to the Oval Office immediately." Personal time was a luxury he rarely enjoyed as the rigorous demands of Chief of Staff continuously encroached on his personal life. There always seemed to be some crisis situation that required her White House staff to leave their families for the good of the nation. Situations they would likely never be able to discuss.
His waiter insisted on boxing his meal for him. Chicken Lo Mein, his favorite. He slipped the box and some fresh chopsticks in a bag and thanked him in advance for the generous tip the Chief of Staff always left. Makley grabbed the bag, left $30 on the table for his $15 meal, walked outside, and hailed a taxi.
Since his wife left him, took the kids, and filed for divorce, he'd been living in the city. Initially he lived in a suite in Georgetown but after his wife was granted full custody of their two daughters, sole ownership of the marital home, and the majority of his bank account, he was forced to find a cheaper apartment in the city.
That was a long time ago. It was tough in the beginning but he'd grown accustomed to his new budget. Rudd had been patient with him, always allowing him time to attend his divorce hearings and mediation. His oldest daughter was driving now, which allowed him to see both his daughters more often. The hardest part, Makley thought, was the loneliness. At night, when he returned to his apartment, he was alone. For some reason, all his prospects for dates had shied away from him. Probably the result of his much-publicized divorce.
His last face-to-face contact with Abigail Love at the Jefferson Memorial reminded him of the night she showed up at his front door. For a brief moment, his mind replayed the adventure.
He pushed the thoughts from his head and focused on the matter at hand. What prompted Rudd to call him in? He scanned the CNN and Fox News websites with his smart phone for answers, but found nothing that warranted his return to the White House. However, he concluded, Rudd's call-in was likely preemptory in nature, which meant the news outlets wouldn't have wind of it yet. That was a good sign. It meant he was being called in for damage control.
The taxi dropped him off at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and 17th Street NW. He cleared the first security checkpoint and walked the remainder of the way to the White House enjoying the cool September night air. Another security checkpoint at the West Wing entrance and he was on his way through the corridors toward the Oval Office. He was greeted outside by the Executive Secretary to the President of the United States who informed him that they were inside waiting. Rudd hadn't said anything to him about they. This must be big if she'd called in the entire White House Staff.
When he entered the Oval Office, he realized he had misinterpreted Rudd's tone and intent for the call-in. There were no other White House Staff, only the old man Elmore Wiley, one of his emissaries, the lovely Francesca Catanzaro with the scar visible on her left cheek, and President Rebecca Rudd. And from the look on Rudd's face, she was not pleased to see him.
"Evan, come in and sit down." She pointed to the couch opposite the coffee table from Wiley and Catanzaro.
"What's this about?" Makley looked at the President then back at Wiley. "More news on the grave robberies?"
Rudd said nothing. She pushed herself up from behind the Resolute Desk. He noticed she looked like she carried the weight of the nation on her shoulders. She walked around to the front of her desk, pushed her pen set out of the way, and did a half sit-half lean against it while looking him in the eyes.
"Let me get right to the point, Evan." Rudd looked at Wiley seated on the sofa. The old man placed some pictures on the antique coffee table in front of him. "What's your involvement with Abigail Love?"
If it weren't such a cliché, he would think this was that defining moment in his life when he was about to hit rock bottom. His mind raced through his past foibles, all of which he'd somehow talked his way out of and come away unscathed. He knew this one was different. He couldn't tell Rudd the truth, not yet.
"As you know, I just took a bath going through that ugly divorce." Evan Makley had prepared a speech for a moment like this if it were to arise. He'd always been a smooth talker, weaseling his way out of trouble on numerous occasions. This was no exception. "For the sake of our friendship, I have remained on the straight and narrow. I haven't dated, gone to nightclubs, or done anything that would tarnish this administration. I remained abstinent for two years. But even I have needs."
He scrutinized their expressionless faces, looking for any sign of empathy, but found none. "Someone gave me the name of Love's Desperate Desire. Told me that discretion was her forte. So I gave her a call. I guess I screwed up. We've only been together once. I swear, I'll terminate my involvement with Abigail Love's service immediately." He didn't lie, technically. More like selective omission.
Rudd lowered her head and shook it from side to side. "Evan, when Mr. Wiley told me what was going on, I didn't want to believe it. I gave you a chance to come clean, yet you chose to lie."
"Madam President, with all due respect, it's only been the one time with Abigail Love."
Rudd knew something else and maybe he'd spoken prematurely about Abigail Love. "Ma'am, what are you talking about?"
Rudd nodded at Wiley again. Francesca Catanzaro pulled out a micro recorder and pressed play. It was his own voice he heard on the recorder. His name is Jake Pendleton. If he gets in the way, kill him too.
He was beaten and he knew it. There was no explanation for that comment. And no way to bullshit his way out of it. A moment of indiscretion had cost him his career. It could even cost him his freedom. He'd thought about it before, if he had to play the blackmail card, he would.
"Evan, what is this all about?" Rudd asked.
His mind went into the survival mode when out of the blue an idea came to him. "May I speak to Mr. Wiley alone for a few minutes. I have information that I can't share with you. I was trying to handle this on my own but I guess I'm in over my head."
"Evan, I'm the President of the United States for God's sake, there is nothing you can't tell me."
Rudd's change in pitch startled him. A vein on her forehead and another in her neck bulged. He noticed red splotches forming on her chest under her necklace. He'd never seen her lose control of her emotions in all the years he'd known her. He stared at Wiley, pleading with his eyes. "Five minutes. That's all I need. Anything I've ever done was in a manner to lend you plausible deniability. Let me tell Mr. Wiley first, let him decide."
Finally the old man spoke up. "Rebecca, with all due respect, you're upset. Let me hear what the man has to say. Maybe it has merit, although I find it difficult to believe."
Rudd was silent for an uncomfortable amount of time. Finally, she nodded. "Five minutes. Then I want to be briefed."
Wiley turned to Francesca. "Please accompany the President while I talk with Mr. Makley."
Rudd and Catanzaro left the two men alone in the Oval Office. Wiley looked at him, ran his fingers through his hair, and pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.
Breach of Power (The Action-Packed Jake Pendleton Political Thriller series Book 3) Page 18
