Eggs and omelettes.
The Chairman tossed the magazine onto the coffee table in front of him. It landed next to the documents he’d been reading earlier: copies of police and FBI reports; and intel passed on by Brad Weaver.
He huffed. It was a great shame Lachkovic had to be sacrificed: Ryan had been a loyal and effective aide; and the Chairman’s physical wellbeing was—in no small part—due to Lachkovic’s meticulousness in managing the Chairman’s health requirements.
His robe had fallen open again. He tugged it into place, covering the scars from his surgeries.
36. CARNAGE
Ryan Lachkovic stared at his phone. Gamesmanship. Lachkovic was sure of it. But he glanced into the Maybach’s rear view mirror anyway. Alex Shala was watching the road, not him. Like any other day. Gamesmanship. Austrian son-of-a-bitch.
But still ...
Lachkovic thumbed his phone’s news feed icon. The top headline read: Fears for VP in Vienna blast. He scanned the story: merely speculative … no actual connections between the explosion and the kidnap … details were limited, the cause undetermined … emergency services were still at work. But then the article named the street where the blast had taken place. The street the clean up crew had been sent to.
His shoulders slumped. By now he should have been called to an emergency meeting, or at least received a call, or something, anything. Lachkovic’s mind raced through possible explanations for the lack of contact, each one less credible than the last. All were batted away by the phrase your bodyguard has a secondary function. Craning round, Lachkovic caught a glimpse of Vilson Bogdani in the Federal Elise. The roadster was a couple of cars behind.
Following his meeting with Weaver, Lachkovic had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at The Diner. He’d had a couple of refills of coffee, then he’d called Shala to have him bring the Maybach and Bogdani: Shala would drive Lachkovic to a meeting at Georgetown University, while Bogdani would take the roadster back to Lachkovic’s Spring Valley home. The Maybach and the roadster were currently heading down Florida Avenue NW. To get to Spring Valley, Bogdani would hang a right onto S Street NW, while the Maybach would continue down to Q Street NW.
The roadster missed the turn.
No matter, thought Lachkovic, Bogdani could pick up Massachusetts Avenue NW just before Q Street NW.
The roadster followed the Maybach onto Q Street NW.
Fuck.
‘Lachkovic has a place on Lake Barcroft,’ said Oliver Jamieson. ‘This is the route I’d take to get there.’
‘Hmmm,’ Grace Breckinridge murmured. She allowed another car to move in front of them, planning to leave the now three-car buffer in place for a mile or two.
They were heading west on Arlington Boulevard. Traffic was moderately heavy, and Lachkovic’s Maybach flitted in and out of sight, but they had a constant visual on the roadster. Agents Reynolds and Cobb, whom EAD Porter had assigned as light surveillance on Lachkovic, were in the Advance vehicle, ahead of the Maybach. They would alert Breckinridge and Jamieson if Lachkovic made a move to pull away or turn off. The Maybach and the Federal Elise driving as a mini-convoy made the job trickier—they had to avoid being spotted by two drivers—and ideally they would have had more vehicles to carry out a standard floating box pattern (with a Backup vehicle and at least one Outrider), but, with resources stretched by the events in Vienna, their two car surveillance would have to do.
EAD Porter had instructed Breckinridge and Jamieson to quiz Lachkovic about his links with former spook Spencer Tamblyn; Porter didn’t expect the smooth lobbyist to give anything away, but he was interested to see if the questioning prompted any unusual or unexpected action. However, according to Lachkovic’s office he had cancelled all of his appointments and was taking a couple of personal days.
Jamieson had said, ‘Anyone buying into that coincidence?’
It had been decided to hold off quizzing Lachkovic, and Breckinridge and Jamieson had joined the surveillance operation, taking up the Command position at the rear of Lachkovic’s mini-convoy.
Lachkovic didn’t have any weapons. Just a couple of crystal glasses and a dozen miniature decanters of different single malts. He could break those and slash Shala, but the divider between Lachkovic and his driver was raised, and it was controlled by Shala. The doors would be locked: also controlled by Shala. The Maybach was a landaulet, and from the back he could lower the rear roof, and … what? Leap out of a moving vehicle? Into traffic?
No.
What else? Call the police. But if Shala had the intercom on—which was likely—he’d hear the call. Shala could lower the screen and put a bullet in Lachkovic within seconds …
Text. Of course. Lachkovic quickly typed a message giving the Maybach’s registration and current location and hit Send. And immediately received a bounce-back message: Text-to-911 is currently unavailable. Please make a voice call.
Damn, damn, damn.
How else could he get help? Maybe he could throw the decanters at other cars. Someone would call the police and there would be too much attention focused on them for Shala to risk shooting him. Or … or … he had nothing else. Was that really his best option?
Lachkovic opaqued the glass divider and activated the TV projector, hoping Shala wouldn’t see what he was about to do until it was too late.
Horns, squealing brakes. Cars up ahead were braking and swerving. ‘This is crazy!’ The voice was Agent Reynolds. ‘Lachkovic is throwing bottles at traffic from his sunroof.’
Three cars in front, the Federal Elise pulled out and accelerated, barging its way forward, knocking aside a small, blue hatchback, leaving a scar of yellow paint along its side. Breckinridge followed, veering to avoid the swerving hatchback.
‘Gun!’ yelled Jamieson.
A pistol was in the Elise driver’s hand, aiming up at the figure flailing out of the top of the now weaving Maybach. Breckinridge stamped on the accelerator.
Oh crap, Jamieson thought: Gracie moment. They slammed into the roadster.
Breckinridge would remember it happening with unnatural speed ...
Airbags punched away.
Glocks drawn.
‘FBI. Drop your—’
Shots fired.
Shots returned.
And she was saying, ‘Agent down, medical assistance required—’
Then a screeching metal howl segued into a booming crash up ahead.
She knew she was still talking, part of her heard the words—calling for assistance, giving their location, summarising the situation—but that was reflexive, the result of training. Ghoulish curiosity, concern and disbelief funnelled her attention beyond the crumpled roadster and the bodies around it, her focus forced further up the road, like sensory kettling, to where distance gave the Maybach the appearance of a toy tumbling through the air. Then it smashed back to earth, the muffled crunching somehow making less noise than when the car had been propelled skywards after hitting a small mountain of construction materials at the side of the road.
The Advance car braked, slewed to a stop. The tiny figures of Reynolds and Cobb scrambled out of their vehicle. Glocks led the way to the twisted wreckage.
Breckinridge turned towards Jamieson. He was face down, blood pooling at his side.
37. VICTIMS
Frantic shutter clicking. A barrage of shouts. And Bogotá’s police force sheltering Alejandro Quintero from swells of jostling journalists. This just a few metres from the gates to the US Embassy compound. Marine Security Guards looked on: a little curious, mostly cautious.
Quintero held up a hand. The gesture did little to quell the cascade of questions. Quintero boomed, ‘Honour. That is what brings me here.’ As though a switch had been flicked, the clamour cut to constant camera clicking. ‘These vipers have besmirched my name. And by doing so they insult all of Colombia. A person with my skin, a person who speaks as I do, as we do, this is not a person who can be a successful person, this is not a person who can create employment, this is not a per
son who can help lift a country’s economy. No, this is a person who cleans pools, or mows lawns, or washes dishes. And if that person has money, then he must be a criminal.’
Quintero stabbed a forefinger towards the stars and stripes flying over the compound. ‘That is what these arrogant Americans choose to believe, that is what these arrogant Americans want all of us to believe. They want us to accept we are less than they are, that we are without laws, without ethics, without morals, without honour. They believe they can vilify and slander with impunity, without consequence. But I say enough.’ Quintero’s hand slicing the air in front of him added a visual exclamation point for the benefit of the TV crews.
‘I am here today to bring their lies to their door. I am here to demand they support their defamation of my name, of Colombia’s name. And when they do not, when they cannot, I am here to demand their unreserved apology.’ Quintero panned a slow, steady gaze round the assorted lenses, ensuring each photographer recorded his steely determination for their newspaper’s front page.
‘So I say to the American government, to the American media, to the American people, I am here to surrender myself to your ambassador. If you truly believe I am involved in the abduction of your Vice President, take me into custody, bind me in chains and transport me to your courts, bring your evidence against me. But let that evidence be more than the shade of my skin, or the manner in which I speak, or that I do not clean your pool.’
‘Mucho respect amigo. Your cojones can be seen from space.’ Diplomatic Security Service Special Agent Russ Beaney closed the video. He’d viewed it online, although he could have just switched on any TV news channel. But then he’d have had to listen to the talking heads and their damned un-American speculation.
Alejandro Quintero had timed his grandstanding to catch the attention of US television’s morning news programmes. As had the person—or persons—responsible for leaking the discovery of a former CIA operative’s fingerprints on the weapon used to kill Rikki De Witte. Conspiracists had just won the lottery. They’d added two and two and—as they often did—they’d come up with the government did it. And the media was lapping it up and spewing it back out in lieu of actual journalism. The theories gaining most traction cast De Witte as a patsy—would De Witte bring his family along if he were intending to kidnap a world figure?—and the most popular of those posited that De Witte’s assassination was intended to divert attention towards Quintero. The ultimate goal of whoever ordered the killing of the Dutchman and the kidnapping of the Vice President depended on which talk-radio crackpot was on-air: The government wanted to bring down Alejandro Quintero because he was becoming too influential in Colombian economic matters. The USA wanted to influence Colombian elections. It was a precursor to an invasion of Colombia. White lawmakers wanted an excuse to repatriate all Hispanics. Or some other nonsense.
Beaney looked across the hall, to the office he’d organised for Gibson Ellis to use when the Secret Service had arrived in advance of the Vice President’s visit to Vienna. And he counted his blessings. As Regional Security Officer, Beaney was responsible for the security of the embassy and the safety of all US nationals assigned to the mission, and under his supervision were several other DSS Special Agents, a detachment of Marine Security Guards, various technical and engineering specialists and a team of investigators. He had been present at every meeting relating to the Vice President’s security in Austria. However, being present didn’t mean being involved. At the time, Beaney had felt side-lined. Now he realised he’d dodged a bullet.
The door across the hall opened, and Ellis stomped out. Beaney felt a great deal of sympathy for Ellis. Beaney had been witness to the Secret Service preparations, and to his mind—given the whole point of a high profile visit was to be high profile, which necessitated a degree of exposure—the security arrangements had appeared faultless. But revisionism at home had other ideas. The Secret Service, and Ellis in particular, would have come in for far less criticism if the agents on duty with the VP had been killed, or at least wounded. Although never verbalised, perverse reasoning by parts of the media and by certain influential sections of Washington had apparently equated zero casualties with failure and incompetence. And now the shard of atonement Ellis’s linking of De Witte and Quintero had afforded him was dissolving in the glare of the most recent developments. Washington had already started distancing itself from the idea Quintero was involved in the VP’s abduction. But that left no one to blame, and politicians abhorred that type of vacuum.
Beaney was tempted to seek out Ellis and offer some words of support. But instead, he returned to the paperwork on his desk. Whatever the crisis, embassy business still had to be carried out. And keeping his head down remained a smart strategy; the bullet Beaney had dodged was still ricocheting around the building.
‘I’m a victim of sexism,’ grumbled Oliver Jamieson. ‘If that misogynistic son-of-a-bitch had had any sense he’d have shot at you first.’
Perched on the end of Jamieson’s hospital bed, Grace Breckinridge tutted and back-handed a light slap across Jamieson’s leg.
Jamieson turned to Colm Reynolds. ‘She’s the one with the top scores on the gun range at Quantico.’
Reynolds glanced at Breckinridge. She gave a coy shrug.
A nurse appeared at the door. ‘The doctor will be here in a few minutes,’ he said. ‘Going to have to ask you to wrap up your visit. And don’t sit on the bed, you’re not in a dorm room.’
As the nurse moved on, Jamieson called after him: ‘Hey, don’t forget I asked for a lady doctor. It’s only fair seeing as I’ve been stuck with you, Mister Bedside-Manner.’
Breckinridge decided Jamieson would be fine.
The initial report had been slim. When Lachkovic had started throwing objects from the back of the landaulet, the Maybach had accelerated, overtaking Special Agents Reynolds and Cobb in the Advance vehicle. The agents had pursued. The Maybach driver had lost control of the vehicle and crashed into a stack of steel water pipes. The impact had flipped the Maybach. The driver, an Alex Shala, survived the crash, but died of his injuries before emergency services arrived. Ryan Lachkovic had been rushed to the closest hospital—Virginia Hospital Center—where he was currently in Critical-Care.
The subsequent, more detailed report had intrigued Xavier Porter: Shala had died as a result of blood loss from lacerations to the side of his neck. The wounds were inconsistent with the crash, but very consistent with being stabbed and slashed repeatedly with broken glass. Lachkovic had cuts to his right hand. The divider between the rear and driver compartments of the Maybach had been in the lowered position. And a handgun had been found in the footwell of the driver’s compartment. The firearm had been discharged, and two bullets had been recovered from the upholstery in the rear of the Maybach.
And then there was Agent Breckinridge’s report: a weapon being aimed at Lachkovic by another one of his employees—a Vilson Bogdani—had prompted her to ram the vehicle Bogdani was driving.
Clearly Lachkovic had been fighting for his life; it would be a very interesting interview that agents would carry out when Lachkovic was healthy enough to be questioned.
Grace Breckinridge flopped into her chair, leaned forward and rested her head on her desk, glad to have a few moments of quiet. She understood the need for the various protocols that kicked in after an agent had been involved in a shooting: the agent being removed to a protected location, away from media; the offer of support counselling; the interviews by local law enforcement and by the FBI Inspection Division. She even appreciated the need for all the paperwork. But understanding didn’t make it any less tiring. And she was tired. She felt guilty for thinking it, but she’d been a little jealous seeing Jamieson in a bed.
‘You should be at home.’
She rolled her head to one side; without lifting her head from the desk, she looked up. EAD Porter stood in the doorway. She sat up straight. ‘Yes sir, I eh …’
‘You’re in but-land. You don’t want to w
alk away from the investigation, but you get why we have our post-shooting procedures, but you don’t feel like you need the off-duty time, but you’d like some alone time, but not the kind where you’re actually alone, but being with friends and family doesn’t appeal because their well-intentioned platitudes won’t cut the mustard. Am I right?’
She half-smiled. ‘Something like that.’
‘Okay. Did you notice the big sofa in my office?’
‘Um, yes, yes I did.’
‘I have a meeting, will last at least an hour. Wait in my office, Mrs Joosten will see you’re not disturbed for at least fifty-five minutes. Take advantage of that time to rest. I’ve asked Agents Reynolds and Cobb to look into the backgrounds of Lachkovic’s lackeys. When I get back from the meeting, we’ll see how they’ve gotten on. After that, you head home to Seattle for a couple of days. Baltimore will be informed that your attachment to DC is now a permanent transfer. This cubby-hole will be here waiting for you, and Agent Jamieson, when you’re both cleared for a return to duty. Deal?’ The sheen of negotiation in Porter’s tone was merely a courtesy.
‘Deal. Sir’
38. ENLIGHTENMENT
Casuistry, equivocation, verbiage. Elias Feiersinger inhabited a world of circumlocution. To be an effective political player was to be a Mary Shelley-esque patchwork of traits: the cozenage of a confidence trickster; the dauntlessness of a door-to-door salesman; and the pliable perspective of a defence lawyer. So Feiersinger knew a little about misdirection. Which was why he was disheartened he’d been hoodwinked so thoroughly. It was small consolation that he hadn’t been alone. Every political office, every law enforcement and security agency had been suckered too. And they’d been complicit in their own duping. They’d consumed the same fiction they’d help feed. Our priority is the safe and speedy recovery of the Vice President, they’d said. And that absolutely had indeed been the case. At first. For maybe an hour. Until responsibilities and tasks were assigned. Although the same-hymn-sheet-singing continued, they’d quickly returned to their natural states: disparate organisations with diverse agendas pursuing divergent goals. And that made the misdirection easy.
The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1) Page 23
