by Brian Haig
"Well… it has great pertinence to those involved in the hunt for the murderers," Jennie replied. She paused. "Here's what's noteworthy to you. During my years in the Behavioral Science Unit, I observed over three hundred murder sites and studied countless others. This killing… it's one for the books… flawless intelligence, preparation, and execution. This operation was planned weeks in advance. We should expect… well, whatever they have planned over the next two days, expect the same pattern."
"The leopard doesn't change his spots. Tell us something we don't know."
Jennie nodded. "All right. Here's what's curious… even alarming. It is axiomatic in our business that political assassins are disorganized. Their motives may be myriad, but their profiles and patterns are not. They are nearly all social losers, frustrated individuals, of low intelligence and ability. They fixate on the target and the statement they want to make. They take only elementary precautions to avoid evidence and witnesses, to create an escape plan, to avoid detection. In fact, nearly all political assassins want to be identified. Irrelevance is the mental hell they're trying to escape."
"All right, what was their motivation?"
"There's no way to know. Not yet."
"At what stage will you know? After the President's dead?"
Set aside the nasty tone, and Mrs. Hooper had posed a pressing and beguiling question. Jennie replied, "If they have a message, they'll choose the time and place to convey it." She added, "Personally, I'm not sure they have a message."
"And what would you call the note they left?"
"I haven't read it. I'm not prepared to analyze it."
"But you know what it said."
"I heard a summary. It didn't sound like a message. It sounded like… like an announcement-a taunt."
She was right, it did. I mean, they open the game by capping the President's right-hand man, and then leave a note that reads, Up Yours, more to follow, then the big guy himself. These people had big egos and brass balls. But gosh, wouldn't we all look bad if they got away with it?
Surveying the faces around the table, Jennie asked, "Other questions?"
After a moment, Townsend asked, "How long were you in the house?"
"Twelve minutes, sir. Two sweeps."
"Twelve minutes?" Those unblinking eyes regarded Jennie for a full ten seconds. The effect was unsettling, almost creepy, like staring at a dead fish and waiting for it to speak. But eventually the lips parted and he said, "That was an impressive analysis for such a short time."
"Thank you, sir. Mr. Drummond here was invaluable. He figured out there was more than one killer, and he pointed out a number of other clues I might have overlooked."
"That's why we have teams," Townsend replied. "We all bring something to the party." He then said, "You have some speculations and leads, I assume."
"I do."
"Proceed."
"We believe the killers had a detailed understanding of the security. They knew how to circumvent the security systems, they may have known a female agent would answer the door, and apparently they knew Terrence and Marybeth Belknap breakfasted together." She paused, then added, "They knew exactly how to deploy themselves in order to kill everybody in that house efficiently and simultaneously"
Mr. Wardell of the Secret Service didn't like the direction she was going and said, "I hope you're not implying that one of our people might be involved."
"I implied nothing."
"You'd better not."
Jennie nodded. Though of course she had implied exactly that, and Mr. Wardell worked up a little steam. "Look… before anyone jumps to a bad conclusion, the Secret Service has been officially guarding the President and his people since 1902. Can anyone here name a single instance of betrayal?" He looked at the faces around the table and added, very insistently, "No federal agency matches our vetting and security procedures."
For a moment the room was silent. Then Phyllis Carney commented, "Charles, I don't mean to be contrary, but really… we at the CIA take a backseat to nobody when it comes to safeguarding against traitors and betrayals."
It took a moment before we all realized the sound we heard was Charles Wardell's balls rolling around on the floor. He said, "I… I didn't mean to imply that our systems are airtight."
Margold nodded appreciatively in Phyllis's direction and said, "Anybody with knowledge about the security at that house needs to be put under a microscope immediately."
Townsend turned to Wardell. "Provide that list to Meany this morning. And for impartiality's sake, the Bureau will handle the interrogations and investigation."
Poor Mr. Wardell did not look happy to carry that word back to his beloved Service. He was realizing, of course, that the crap was about to rain on the American praetorians and there was not a big enough umbrella to hide under. At least he could look his peers in the eye and claim he fought the good fight.
Townsend glanced back at Margold and asked, "Further leads? Speculations?"
"Well, the driver, Larry Elwood, and the location of his car have to be targets of immediate and primary interest. Elwood is a suspect, obviously However, his car arrived five minutes late and his face is not visible on the videos. This could imply his car was hijacked and the man on our tape is an impostor. Also, the car is a mining site for forensics."
"Good point." Townsend turned to George Meany "What are we doing about the car?"
"An APB has been issued."
"Not enough. Scramble helicopters and notify every local jurisdiction to conduct a street-by-street search. Put out a description to every tolltaker in the five-state region. Assume they changed plates. Focus on the car model."
George was furiously scribbling all this down on a notepad.
Townsend studied him and said, "By nightfall, every black Lincoln Town Car from Baltimore to Richmond better have been stopped at least a dozen times." To underscore that, he added, "My official car included. If I don't get stopped and searched, I'll have somebody's head."
Jennie suggested, "We should also send agents door-to-door in the Ballantrae Farm neighborhood, asking if anybody saw anything this morning."
I suggested, "In any of the weeks leading up to this morning. The killers no doubt staked out the Belknaps' house well in advance."
Townsend looked at Meany and commented, "It's an exclusive neighborhood. Strangers would be noticed."
Actually, anybody not in a Brooks Brothers suit and a hundred-thousand-dollar luxury car would stick out like a purple banana on that block.
Meany needed to get a point on the board and suggested, "Also, every police district and sheriff's department from Baltimore to Richmond should be told to report any murders, killings, or serious incidents to us immediately. We can't afford a delay in notification."
My personal feelings about George aside, he was smart and competent, and it was a timely suggestion. Washington, DC, is an annual contender for the murder capital, and a relevant murder could easily get lost or misplaced in the city's embarrassment of riches. Following up on George's thought, I asked, "Exactly what is everybody outside this room allowed to know?"
I thought for a moment I was going to be asked to leave. But Peterson shook his head and said, "Leave it to Drummond to drag the elephant into the room."
George Meany chuckled. Jennie smiled, and everybody else stared at me. I take a bit of getting used to.
But apparently this question fell into Mrs. Hooper's basket, who said, "I haven't decided. For now, Terry Belknap is at home with the flu." She glanced at Peterson and Townsend and instructed them, "You two go brief the President. I'll let you know."
Power is a weird thing. Theoretically and on paper, the Directors of the FBI and CIA are higher in the food chain than some lady who came to town on her boss's coattail and did not need permission from Congress for her corner office in the West Wing. Yet this brief exchange cleared up any messy confusion about who was who in the pecking order. I really missed the Army, where everybody has their rank on their collar. The
rank doesn't always tell you who's actually in charge, but it does tell you who can and who can't screw you.
Anyway, they both nodded and departed, and Jennie Margold and I exchanged troubled looks. As soon as the door closed, Jennie addressed Mrs. Hooper and asked, "Are Drummond and I missing something? The White House Chief of Staff's dead. You can't hide that."
It was an interesting question, and apparently a provocative one, because for a moment it just hung in the air. Then Phyllis, my boss, said, "It's… well, it's a little more complicated than that, I'm afraid. We probably should have seen this coming."
"Why?"
"Well… the bounty." She studied a spot on the wall for a moment. "Somebody has offered a reward of one hundred million dollars to whoever murders the President of the United States."
Shit.
CHAPTER FIVE
On that bizarre note, George Meany looked down the table and said, "I have calls to make. Take fifteen minutes to freshen up, then we'll decide what comes next."
The room swiftly emptied, except for Phyllis and me. Phyllis pretended to ignore me while everybody filed out, then I was hard to ignore. She said, "It sounds like you did a splendid job. Jennie Margold was very complimentary."
"Agent Margold was preoccupied with the ton of shit on her shoulders. I had nothing better to do."
"Yes, I'm sure. But I'm glad you gained her trust and confidence."
"Really? Why?"
Phyllis approached this question with the delicacy it deserved. "Surely it is no secret that the FBI and our Agency occasionally fail to communicate in a… well, a timely and effective manner."
"I had no idea."
She forced a smile. "Must I actually explain this to you?"
"Yes."
"All right. In addition to assisting the investigation, I expect you to be a conduit of information. Pay attention to what the FBI is learning and relay that back to me." She added, "Of course you can feel free to selectively pass on any information from our shop that might help the Bureau."
"Define 'selectively'"
"Use your judgment."
"Bad idea. Spell it out for me."
"All right. We're all on the same team, and we're interested in the same goal. I don't really care who gets credit for success. I do care greatly about who is blamed for failure. Understood?"
I nodded.
"Good. Any other questions?"
I had been waiting for this moment. "Why me?"
"Why not you?" After a moment she mentioned,"I read your classified Army file before I decided to bring you over here. You've had an interesting and varied career, Sean. Five years with the Special Forces, hunting and killing terrorists. Eight as a criminal lawyer, handling the most sensitive kinds of cases. My people are analysts or field operators… they have no investigative or killing experience." She looked me in the eye and asked, "So again, why not you?"
Well, I was new to the job, I wasn't actually a CIA employee, I didn't have a clue how the Agency was supposed to help, how it operated internally, not to mention a federal statute called Posse Comitatus, which prohibits military officers from engaging in domestic law enforcement activities. Also I hadn't voted for, nor did I even particularly like this President. But deductive logic aside, I could think of only one impelling reason it should be me-I was the perfect scapegoat.
But perhaps I was being overly cynical. Skepticism's healthy, but is only a hop, skip, and jump from the abyss of paranoia, which is not. Really, it boiled down to trust, and the question was: Could I take this lady at face value?
I recalled what I knew about Miss Phyllis Carney, whose job title, incidentally, was Special Assistant to the Director. There was only one special assistant in these parts, and lumping two spoonfuls of sugar into the boss's coffee wasn't the duty description.
I knew she had fifty-three years in the Agency and had climbed, scratched, and clawed her way from a secretarial stool to her current exalted perch. This made for an interesting and exotic resume, I'm sure not to mention a skill set including such archaic talents as stenography and garroting. Given the span of her service, she had played in some rough games and tilted against the big leaguers, or as the boys in the ranks say, she'd seen her share of the shit. She was either quite good at what she did or monumentally expert at dodging blame. Probably both.
Regarding her personal life and habits, I was aware she had once been married and her husband had either died or they were divorced. So there was no family left in the picture, no distractions from her work, and no complicating loyalties. Actually she was quite charming, bright, and clever, and her speech, manner, and dress were old-fashioned in a way that was disarming and faintly seductive. In her presence, in fact, you actually had to remind yourself that nobody survives half a century in her line of work who can't yank the lever on the scaffold and walk away whistling.
I recalled the words she had used to welcome me to this organization: "We only handle high stakes in this shop, Sean, We're usually the last resort and only occasionally the first resort. The problems that come to us are either too hard or too sensitive for the organization at large to swallow. Although not physically dangerous, our work can be professionally hazardous." I had replied, "Piscem natare doces," and she had stared at me a moment before she snapped, "I'm not teaching a fish to swim. I'm warning a cocky fool to be careful." She smiled pleasantly and added, "Latin minor, Smith College, class of '48."
Phyllis was not universally known, though I had come to discover that she was known individually by nearly everybody in the Agency, an important and worthy distinction. Like most big organizations, the CIA is a collection of duchies and princedoms run by big egos, a briar patch of conflicting agendas and reciprocal paranoias, with high walls you can't see but that you can definitely stub your toe on. Mentioning you work for Phyllis Carney was like waving an E-ZPass. Now she asked me, "Is there a compelling personal reason that would preclude you from handling this?"
"Several. George Meany-you might recall that he and I had a few issues."
"Yes, I recall that… Watch your back around George."
"Two-I'm not qualified for this job."
"Nobody is qualified for this job. I can't recall an instance where someone placed a bounty on our President's head. Can you?"
"All right… I don't trust you."
After a moment, she said, "I see." After another moment, she said, "I have to place a call to the office to inform everybody to lock up their sensitive materials and take three days off. And you look like you need a cup of coffee."
Actually, I needed a new job. But I left and found Jennie in the snack bar, slathering jam onto something that looked like a breadish acorn when I approached her from behind and asked, "What's that?"
She did not turn around. "A scone. It's an English breakfast treat."
"No kidding. Like an English doughnut?"
"Spare me the bad doughnut jokes, please." After a moment, she said, "You're really not from the Agency, are you?"
"Why?"
"Well, you wear a suit that costs too much, you're bright and cocky, so you're three-quarters of the way there. But you're not arrogant… or sneaky. I don't think you're even sly."
I studied the back of her head. "How long have you worked for George Meany?"
"A few months."
"What happened to we'll watch each other's asses?"
"Oh… that…" She began squeezing a tea bag into a cup. "Did you take the deal? I don't recall hearing it."
"All right-it's a deal."
She had left her blue jacket on the chair in the conference room and I could now observe that hers was indeed an ass worth watching. Also she had a wasplike waist, slender hips, and if I had to guess, a 38D cup, or maybe DD, although what's in a letter? Of course, I was already seriously involved with a significant other. Sort of. But from a purely professional standpoint, I was reassured to observe that Agent Margold was not only brainy, she was in tip-top shape, she could probably chase down your average badas
s, and in an emergency I wouldn't herniate doing the fireman's carry. Also she smelled good, sort of lemony, so she probably practiced good hygiene. Clean bodies, clean minds. But maybe not.
Anyway, she stirred her cup for a few seconds, avoiding conversation. Eventually she said, "Actually… George requested you this morning."
"Did he?", "He said you knew your way around."
"Is that all he said?"
"He also mentioned he had worked a case with you before. He said you showed good instincts. That was it."
Was that it, or was George setting up Act Two so he could slip me the weenie? If so, where and how did Ms. Margold fit into that scheme? I grabbed a foam cup and pushed a lever that gushed coffee out of a big vat. I asked, "Did you know about the bounty?"
"Nope. It's interesting, though."
"You mean it's interesting if it's not on you."
"That's exactly what I meant." After a moment she asked, "Do you think the money's behind it?"
"I think it's one possibility. We slap bounties on the heads of Aideed, bin Laden, and Saddam, and now somebody decides to turn the tables. Poetic retribution. Right?"
We diddled with our coffee and tea.
"It would be really remarkable," she said.
"It would be the ultimate screw-you. They announce that they intend to whack our President and they do it."
She finally said, "We have to be careful here. Lesson one at my classes at Quantico, I always stressed the dangers of reverse causality."
"Good point. But you don't have to worry about that with me."
"No?"
"I keep protection in my wallet."
She rolled her eyes. "I'm referring to the trap of circuitous logic. Bad things always come in threes… A woman has triplets, therefore the babies are bad."
"Sounds reasonable."
I think she was regretting she'd called me bright. But as if his ears were burning, George Meany suddenly materialized beside us and grabbed a foam cup. With a sideways glance at me, he mentioned, too nonchalantly, "Well, Drummond, I see we'll be working together again"
