President's assassin sd-5

by Brian Haig

  The Bureau had to go through the paces, but sometimes the right thing to do is also the stupid thing to do. Not that I had a better suggestion. In fact, as Phyllis elaborated more of the steps and precautions-setting up checkpoints at strategic locations, screening Jason's charge card purchases to see where he liked to hang out, his phone records to see who he hung out with, etcetera-it struck me that hunting this guy down was going to be a bitch. I mean, there are people without Jason's brains, experience, and inside edges who spent ten years on the FBI's most wanted list. But Jason had lived in D.C. for three years, he knew the streets, he knew how to get around, and he knew what the police could do and what the police could not do.

  Also, Jason's accomplices, in the parlance of the Bureau, remained UnSubs. Without the slightest tick of recognition, they could go out, retrieve groceries, scope out the checkpoints, and surveil the targets, while Jason hung around his hidey-hole and hatched his nefarious plans and plots. But enough unbridled optimism. Eventually, Phyllis wrapped it up by asking me, "Anything you can think of we should be doing but aren't?"

  "Not a thing."

  "Do you think he'll go after Mark Townsend?"

  "I think, if he's half as good as he's been so far, he'll detect the security coverage and look elsewhere."

  She nodded. "It's not a good posture, is it?"

  "It's a terrible posture. Basically, we're waiting for him to make the next move, and praying he makes the kind of mistake he hasn't made yet."

  "My read also." She added, "Let's hope his next move's not too awful."

  "If you're the target," I noted, "it will be awful."

  "Of course. Speaking of awful, you look terrible."

  Well, I should. I was trying to look terrible. I had scruffed up my hair and I sank a little lower in my seat. I yawned. "Well… I'm fine, boss… a little… tired… hungry… filthy… but-"

  "Go get cleaned up and take a nap, Drummond. You're no good to anybody if you can't think. Lord knows what might develop later today."

  I stood. "I… if you insist."

  She looked at me curiously. "I'm certainly not… insisting."

  I fast-stepped toward the exit, before she had a change of heart. She said, as I went out the door, "Just be sure to leave your number with the comm center in the event-"

  I shut the door.

  Elizabeth sat at her station outside Jennie's office door, and she smiled at me as I approached. She appeared to like me for some reason. As I said, women are rotten judges of men. I smiled back and said, "Good morning, Elizabeth. Is her majesty ready to depart?"

  "On the phone at the moment."

  I leaned against Elizabeth's desk and waited. We chatted amiably for a few moments, then, totally out of the blue, she mentioned, "I think she likes you."

  I ordinarily don't like nosy, gossipy women sticking their noses in my business. But this was okay. "Oh… well, you know, we're just partners… maybe friends-"

  "I don't think so. She thinks you're very attractive… and sexy."

  "She never mentioned smart?"

  Elizabeth laughed. She then paused, as gabbers do, contemplating how much to disclose. Eventually she stated, "She needs a man. She should have children by now. Have you ever been married?"

  "Nope."

  "Never? How old are you, Major?"

  It could only go downhill from here, so I pointed at her ring. "Well… how long have you been married?"

  "Twenty-seven wonderful years. Seven kids. Three girls and four boys. Just had our first grandchild."

  "Wow! That's a lot of-"

  "Children. Yes, I know. Don't you want children?"

  "Can't I just borrow them?"

  "How many?"

  I was on the verge of killing either her or myself when fortunately the red blinker on Elizabeth's phone stopped blinking. Before Elizabeth could say another word, I said, "I'd better catch her while she's free." I popped my head into Jennie's office. "Still up for this?"

  "Yes… I think."

  She looked doubtful, however, and I suggested, "Maybe we shouldn't."

  "With everything going on, you're probably right."

  So we both weighed the choice between lounging around our cramped offices and waiting for something to happen or a nice breakfast, shower, and a nap, or perhaps something more than a nap. I said, "Bring your cell phone."

  She grabbed her purse and mentioned, "That was George."

  "What's he doing?"

  "He's assumed direct control of the security around Townsend."

  "Smart boy Take care of the boss, and the boss takes care of you."

  She smiled. "He's not as smart as we are."

  I smiled back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I parked in the underground garage, and via the elevator ascended up to ground level. It is in the strange nature of females to always plan ahead, and Jennie informed me she had already called and booked us at the Hyatt Regency on Jefferson Davis Highway, which, as you might expect, had a lobby the size of a pro basketball court filled with la-di-da furnishings. A long line of overnighters and businesspeople gripping their briefcases were nonchalantly waiting to check out and shove off for the next town while we waited to check in.

  It took a while to reach the head of the line, and we passed our time the way two people do who are on the cusp of first-time sex, or at least seriously thinking about it-a little shy, nervously flirtatious, laughing a little too hard, but at least we weren't panting.

  But it could be I was misreading the signals here. It could be that Ms. Margold was just giddy from relief to be away from the hubbub of the investigation and from George. Women are confusing.

  Jennie gave her name to the clerk, who punched it into the bowels of her computer. After a moment she looked up, first at Jennie, then at me. She clarified, "Two rooms, right?"

  Jennie looked at me and asked the clerk, "Do you have a room with two double beds?"

  "Of course."

  Back to me, Jennie asked, "Do you mind?"

  Did I? "Well… considering the federal debt…"

  "I was thinking it would keep either of us from oversleeping." Jennie looked at the clerk. "One room will be fine."

  She passed her Bureau charge card across the counter, and while the desk clerk made the necessary adjustments, I stood and contemplated the meaning of this. Two rooms definitely meant breakfast and a nap. One room could mean breakfast and no nap. Alternatively, one room could also mean breakfast, a cold shower, and a nap. I wasn't really sure what I was getting into, or if this was a good idea for either of us.

  The magnetic passkey and charge card were passed across the counter, and Jennie informed the clerk, "We're federal agents. We're here on government business. Call the room in four hours, would you?"

  I smiled at the young lady, who smiled back, I'm sure thinking how very fortunate our republic was to have such thrift-minded public servants.

  We walked across the lobby and entered the elevator without exchanging a word, or even eye contact. Inside the elevator, Jennie said, "Ninth floor," and pushed what I hoped was the appropriate button.

  I said, "Nice day, isn't it?"

  "Seasonably warm," replied Jennie, staring straight ahead.

  Well, this didn't sound like precoital banter.

  We left the elevator and found the room with the same number on the door as the number on the envelope the clerk had given her, This was a good start. Jennie stuffed the magnetic key-card in the slot and the door opened.

  We stepped inside. The room was expansive, I noted, with two comfy beds, the usual array of chairs, TV, side tables, and an overpowering aura of nervous uncertainty. I walked across the room, removing my coat and tie, which I threw into a messy heap on a chair. Jennie went to the other side of the room, removing her jacket, which she neatly folded and hung carefully on the other chair. I pointed at the Glock and holster on her hip. "I don't think you'll be needing that."

  She smiled. "Won't I?"

  Interesting. But she
removed her holster and pistol and placed them dead center on the writing desk.

  I sat on the bed, picked up the phone, and punched the button for room service. I ordered a six-egg western omelet for me, a large dish of fries, a side order of bacon, extra catsup, a pot of coffee, and a pot of tea for the lady. I asked Jennie what she wanted to eat.

  "Fruit platter and two strawberry yogurts."

  We obviously had different concepts of food, but I passed it along and hung up. I informed Jennie, "Fifteen minutes." I pointed toward the bathroom. "Ladies before gents."

  "Oh… there's a gentleman around?" She was casually unbuttoning her blouse and moving toward the bathroom when she added, "I'll be quick. Don't fall asleep," which was also interesting.

  I put on the TV and switched to Fox News, which offers only "News that is fair and balanced" which somehow is different from "All the news that's fit to print," whatever that means. A commercial was running, and some old guy I thought I recognized was talking about erectile dysfunction, which at that moment was not really my problem. I could hear the shower running and Jennie humming.

  It was funny, I thought, how much first-time sex and battle have in common, the same air of tension and anxiety, where everybody's uncertain about the outcome or even whether they really want to be there.

  The bathroom door opened, and out stepped Jennie wearing no more than a fluffy white towel and her birthday suit. She walked straight to a window, turned her back to me, and stared down at the street as she used a second towel to dry her hair.

  Being a perfect gentleman, I naturally turned my head and averted my eyes, at least until the instant she had her back turned. Then I peeked. In fact Agent Margold was the pride of the FBI gym, had nicer legs than I had imagined, wider shoulders, and not an ounce of flab I could see. Her skin was creamy white, although I noted a number of small scars on her arms and legs, some of which appeared to be burn marks, others were abrasions. But all in all, Jennie had nothing to be ashamed of, and I felt a strange tingling sensation in my stomach, or perhaps a little lower. She looked over her shoulder and mentioned, "I left the water running for you." She threw the towel she'd used to dry her hair in my face. "Hurry."

  I went into the bathroom, stripped out of my shoes, socks, ridiculously expensive Brooks Brothers dress shirt and pants, and stepped into the shower. A minute later, I was all lathered up when I heard the door open. Through the glass I saw Jennie step into the bathroom. I don't really like showering alone and said, "Can you do my back?"

  She laughed. "The food's at the door. My wallet's in here."

  "Then I'll do my own back."

  "Maybe another time." She left with her wallet. Goodness.

  I emerged from the bathroom three minutes later, with a towel wrapped around my midsection. Jennie was seated on the far bed, stripping the skin off a banana, which is always a little suggestive, and was still wearing no more than a towel, which is better yet.

  The cart was parked between the two double beds, and I sat on the other bed and poured myself a cup of coffee. So there we were, two mostly naked people in a hotel room with four hours to kill, separated by nothing more than three feet, a foodcart and, possibly, differing intentions. But truly there is a Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, and food is higher on the list than sex, though not always.

  Jennie pointed at the TV "Did you see any updates about the murders?"

  "I saw some guy talking about something called sexual dysfunction."

  "Is that a problem for you?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "You're sure?"

  "I have the other problem."

  She smiled." I meant a problem with commercials about sexual dysfunction, contraceptives, or feminine hygiene products?"

  I smiled and dug into the fries.

  She asked, "Does it make you nervous to talk about sex?"

  I replied, "Have you seen any good movies lately?"

  "It's a perfectly healthy topic, you know. Men can be a little strange about it. Adults should be open about these things."

  "My thoughts exactly. So… are you a Democrat or a Republican?"

  "You're weird."

  She reached over and turned on the radio, moved the dial around a while, and settled on a station playing a romantic ballad by Pete Seeger.

  I finished my omelet.

  She said, "I love this song." She stretched and added, "I need to lay down."

  So she lay back on her bed, I polished off the fries, and I lay back on mine. After a moment, I asked her, "Where did all those scars come from?"

  "I was quite the tomboy when I was younger."

  "You should've stuck to skirts and dolls."

  "Yeah, well, you should see the other guy."

  "Right."

  Silence.

  Eventually, Jennie said, "This is… a little uncomfortable, isn't it? Should we have gotten two rooms?"

  "Well, what can I say? We're partners."

  "I don't often do this… even with partners."

  "I hope not."

  Silence.

  I said, "Why aren't you married?"

  "Why should I be?"

  "Elizabeth thinks you should be married. Elizabeth thinks you should have a house in a burb, and ten kids screaming in the back of a red stretch minivan."

  "Elizabeth should mind her own business." After a moment she asked, "What about you?"

  "Ask Elizabeth."

  She laughed.

  She turned on her side and faced me. "Look, I enjoy you as a partner. You're very smart and very quick. I also think we've become friends."

  "Right. I think-"

  "Shut up. Let me finish. We've only known each other a day. It's been a very long and tense day, and… both our emotions are running high. If we… well, if we take the next step… and I'll admit I'm thinking about it, too… Sean, I don't do this casually."

  "That's not what Elizabeth told me."

  A strawberry bounced off my forehead. "Cut it out."

  "I always send flowers."

  She smiled. I thought we were on the cusp of something. Maybe. So far, I had been the perfect gentleman. I had put down the toilet seat, and even taken the other bed. I don't believe in throwing myself at women, and she was telling me she didn't believe in throwing herself at men, which meant one of us had to get over it and make the first move, or we'd both walk out of here with our beliefs intact. So, going where no man had gone before-or I hoped very few-I stood up and took a step toward her bed.

  Suddenly we both heard a loud bleeping sound.

  We looked into each other's eyes a moment. She said, "It's mine."

  "No-they're both going off."

  "Shit." We raced back to our clothes and scrambled around for our cell phones. Jennie found hers first. "Margold."

  I got mine. "Drummond."

  Phyllis was on the line. "Where are you?" she asked.

  "I'm… nearby."

  "They… they struck again. It's very bad, Sean."

  I had assumed so from her tone. In fact, her voice sounded shaky, and I thought she had been crying. "Tell me about it."

  "Well, we… we should have considered… but we didn't. It's the one thing we weren't guarding against."

  It suddenly hit me. "The families."

  Phyllis said nothing, which said everything.

  "Whose?"

  "It's… they… Mark Townsend's wife."

  "Shit." I felt really stupid. Worse, I felt terrible. Why hadn't I figured this out before?

  Phyllis said, "Please, get there right away It's important for Mark to know, at this moment, that we in the Agency… that we.. "

  A long silence ensued while Phyllis discovered what she wanted to say. Eventually, she informed me, "I've known Mark and Joan nearly two decades. They have a daughter in college… Janice. I've… well, we're very…"

  "I'm on my way. I will find these people, Phyllis."

  "Do that. I mean it." She hung up.

  I began dressing. Jennie was pulling up her pants
with one hand, and with the other she held the phone to her ear and listened to the details of what had happened, and where.

  I already knew what had happened. Literally and figuratively, we'd been caught with our pants down. Too late, I realized what had been gnawing at me. For Jason Barnes, this was a vendetta- both personal and borderless-like the Hatfields and McCoys, a blood feud with lines of vengeance that radiated beyond the government officials he believed had wronged his father. Barnes was a man of faith, a fundamentalist par excellence; he would subscribe to a biblical retribution, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth; a mother for a father and a parent for an angry son.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The aftermath of a bombing is more terrifying and more horrible than any other form of murder. When I was an infantry officer, I once helped clear a bombed barracks in the Middle East. I have never erased the sights, nor the distinctive smells of seared flesh, blood, and internal organs from my mind.

  Joan Townsend was a former FBI agent. Once a Fibbie, always a Fibbie. She remained admirably disciplined, a creature of habits wholesome and predictable-church every Sunday morning, a stop at the dry cleaners every Wednesday, grocery shopping on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and an efficient cardio workout every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning at the Gold's Gym located at Tysons Corner.

  Twenty minutes of pumping light weights, ten minutes on the stairstep, finished off with twenty minutes on the running machine, a quick shower, and a fast dash out to the parking lot for the drive home. She was dedicated and she was fit, and at sixty years old she still wore a size four. She had just settled her firm and svelte butt into the leather seat of her gray Crown Victoria, and was probably in the process of buckling her seat belt when she blew right into the roof and windshield.

  Three unfortunate souls were getting out of the car parked beside Joan Townsend's and also were obliterated. A few limbs were scattered around, and I noted some viscera hanging from the handicapped parking sign.

  When it's the boss's wife, word spreads both efficiently and fast. It appeared that half the FBI had rushed to the scene. Three fire trucks were parked alongside the curb as the firemen were rolling up hoses and putting away their equipment. Yellow crime scene tape was already strung, and forensics experts were combing the scene, picking through body scraps and car parts, bagging and tagging. Also, I noted, a few TV vans had made it to the scene, and three or four reporters were scrambling to get their mikes and camera crews into broadcast mode. The circus had started: It was going to be a three-ringer. But a large and expanding crowd of people who mostly dressed and looked distinctively alike were congregating outside the black-and-yellow tape, staring numbly and unhappily at what was left of their chief's mate.