"He's coming your way, Martha."
Breckinridge pressed the transmitter button on the dashboard microphone.
"Roger, Pete. I see him."
She focused on the museum doors with binoculars. Earlier, she'd walked past Garrison and Hightower as they were talking so she could get a look at Hightower. She was sitting behind the wheel of an unmarked Secret Service sedan that was parked across the street from the Natural History Museum. The motor was running and she had a good five feet separating her sedan from the car in front so she could steer into traffic with one turn of the steering wheel.
Hightower moved briskly down the steps and then crossed the street to a late-model blue Chevrolet Malibu.
Breckinridge put the binoculars on the seat beside her and wrote down the Malibu's license number in her daily log. She was alone and she wished she had some help in the surveillance. Most Secret Service mobile surveillance operations involved ten or more cars driven by agents monitoring every direction taken by the person being followed. But she and Garrison were the only agents involved in the case. She would have to handle the surveillance without help.
After looking about furtively for a few moments, Hightower opened the driver's-side door of the Malibu and got in. He started the engine and pulled out from the curb.
Breckinridge followed him along Constitution Avenue, keeping at least one car between them as cover, praying that she didn't lose him in the traffic. With little else to go on, maybe Hightower was the key to the case. It wouldn't be the first time an informant was more involved in something than he'd let on.
Hightower turned left at Louisiana Avenue. He drove a few blocks to the Trailways bus station, where he pulled his car to the curb and parked.
Breckinridge drove by the Malibu, stopping at the end of the block to watch Hightower in her rearview mirror. She broke out in a cold sweat. Bus stations made her uncomfortable. During Aryan Disciples surveillance in Cleveland, Ohio, a year earlier, she'd followed a suspected terrorist to a bus terminal. As she'd watched him place a package in a rental locker, the package had unexpectedly detonated. Tje blast propelled pieces of his body and clothing all over the terminal. Luckily, only a few people had been injured, including Breckinridge, who'd had human bone fragments removed from her right buttock.
Hightower got out of his car and jogged across the street to the bus station. Breckinridge parked quickly and hurried after him. There were lots of tourists around. Hightower entered the terminal, meshing into the crowd of travelers. Was he going to meet someone? What would she do if he got on a bus?
A group of children got in her way and she almost tripped. When she looked up, he was out of sight. Cursing silently, she hurried from one end of the terminal to the other, scanning faces. Had she lost him? She moved briskly through the station, hunting for him. Passing a bank of rental lockers, she almost bumped into him. He was inserting coins into a rental locker coin slot. Her heart raced as he pulled open the locker and reached inside. He took out a thick, business-sized envelope and shoved it into this jacket. He looked about suspiciously.
She turned her head. Was he looking at her? He walked toward the door. She followed him outside and down the sidewalk. Reaching his car, he unlocked the door and got behind the wheel.
Breckinridge crossed the street and followed the sidewalk in his direction. He was opening the envelope and taking out money in what looked like banded half-inch greenbacks. To avoid drawing attention, she continued along the sidewalk. He drove off. She reached for her cell phone and dialed Garrison's cell phone number. He answered on the first ring. She told him to meet her at the bus terminal. He arrived about five minutes later, pulling up next to her as she stood outside her car.
"Your boy just picked up some money from a rental locker," she said leaning down to the driver's-side window. "Banded green, like from a bank. What did he have to say?"
"That the shooter is at a motel in Laurel and has been doing some recon. But the way he is doling out information is bothering me. He's nervous and hesitant. He was never like that before."
She nodded. "What do you think he is up to?"
"He's known to deal in illegal weapons. But why would an informant hoping to make a million dollars from turning a Presidential assassination plot risk everything on some gun deal? Besides, if he were doing such a deal, the buyer would want to see the guns before he put the money in some rental locker. This seems like more of a terrorist thing to me."
"I have another question. If the Aryan Disciples were planning to kill the President, why would they tell Hightower? They keep their organization leak-free and compartmentalized. The members seldom use the telephones ... much less tell a non-member like Hightower what they are up to. In the federal building bombings no one but the participants and one or two other key members knew about the plan." She believed that criminals were predictable. Whatever they did revolved around money. They seldom anticipated future events and, instead, lived life moment to moment, like animals. Hightower wasn't fitting any pattern. "Your rat is screwing us. Commo Card or not, I think he's playing a game on us."
"I agree. Something is fishy. But I find it hard to believe that he would have the guts to make up a scheme this big on his own. Not even if he thought he could make a million bucks. He's too cautious. When I worked with him before, he had plenty of opportunities to build up the information he was giving me and he didn't. He knew we would see through it."
"Maybe something changed."
"That's what we have to find out," Garrison said. "For some reason or another he thinks he can get away with this."
****
CHAPTER 8
AT THE PLANTATION motel, a two-story, forty-room structure with a fenced pool and a slot in the office wall for departing guests to drop off their room keys, the motel manager removed the registration card for Room 21 from a drawer and handed it to Garrison. Garrison noticed the manager's name tag: PATEL. It had seemed to him that every motel manager had the name Patel until he'd learned that it was true. One East Indian caste owned and operated nearly all the independent motels in the United States.
"Alexander," Patel said. "Garth Alexander. He's paid up until tomorrow at noon. A cash transaction."
The card had an address in New York and a phone number. Garrison took out a pen and pad and copied the information.
"Can you describe him?" Breckinridge asked.
"I think he was wearing sunglasses and a cowboy hat when he checked in. And there was a blond fair-skinned woman with him with tattoos. But she left that day and didn't stay." Patel rubbed his stubble for a moment, then turned to Garrison. "He looks a little like you."
Garrison knew that when witnesses made such comments, it often meant that they had no independent recollection of what the person looked like. Witnesses, with the exception of those involved in crime, always wanted to help.
"We'll need a key to the room," Breckinridge said.
Patel glanced from Breckinridge to Garrison and back.
Garrison figured Patel was trying to think of a reason to decline. Then he reached into a drawer, took out a key that was attached to a plastic holder, and handed it to Breckinridge. She and Garrison left the office and walked toward the Secret Service sedan in the parking lot.
"Alexander," Breckinridge said. "The name doesn't ring a bell."
They got in the car and Breckinridge used her cell phone to call PRD on a scrambled line. She gave someone Alexander's name, waited on the line for a moment, and then began making notes.
"Thanks," she said, and then dropped the phone back in her purse. "The New York address and phone number are bogus," she said referring to her notes. "Garth Alexander is a name used by an ex-French Legionnaire who has been involved in some action jobs in Africa. He was an intelligence officer at one time. There is an entry on him from the CIA a couple of months ago. They name him as being a suspect in the murder of a businessman in Gijon, Spain, a possible contract job for the Basque separatist movement. He also may have take
n part in a coup that took place on the island of Reunion, a French protectorate in the Indian Ocean. They're sending a mug shot."
"A mercenary. That fits with what Hightower told me."
"The Aryan Disciples have ties to a couple of Canadian anarchist groups and some German neo-Nazi clubs. It wouldn't be the first time terrorist organizations have traded favors."
She opened the glove compartment, slid out a tray that held a laptop computer/modem. She pressed some keys. Moments later, a booking photograph of Garth Alexander appeared on the screen. He was white, of medium weight and height. He had clean features, brown eyes, and a full head of sandy hair. In a crowd, he wouldn't stand out.
Breckinridge laughed. "He does look like you."
"Thanks."
"What now?"
"We hit his room."
"I agree."
Garrison was aware that in a Presidential assassination investigation, both evidence-gathering and general law-enforcement protocols took second place to thwarting the plot - to stopping it from going forward in any way possible. The mission, above all others, was to save the President. No matter what. The legalities could be sorted out later. If an assassination occurred, afterwards no one would thank Garrison for following the letter of the law. Instead, all the Monday morning quarterbacks of the world would crucify him for not taking action.
They returned to the motel, ascended a flight of stairs, and followed the balcony to Room 21. They pulled guns. Garrison knocked on the door. Hearing nothing, he slipped the key into the lock and turned. He shoved the door open and they rushed inside.
No one was there. The bed was unmade. On the wall was a solitary faded print of a lakeside cabin. There was no luggage or belongings. Garrison reholstered his gun. Breckinridge pulled the door closed. Garrison opened the dresser drawers one by one. They were empty. Breckinridge checked under the bed. In the bathroom, Garrison knelt down next to a wastebasket. In it was a copy of Guns & Ammo magazine. He thumbed pages and a small piece of paper fell out. He kneeled down and used another scrap of paper to pick it up. It was a cash receipt for two rolls of 35mm black-and-white film, dated a few days earlier.
"Martha."
She joined him and read the receipt.
"Sandor's Camera Store, Rehoboth Beach. Your informant's information pans out again. This looks like a professional recon job to me."
Garrison tore off a corner of the magazine, and used it to pick up the receipt and place it in his shirt pocket.
"Why would a mercenary who's in town to kill the President tell anyone where he was staying?"
"Maybe they know each other."
"Hightower didn't mention that. On the other hand, he didn't mention anything except the bare facts. He's holding back on me."
"Did he ever do this before?"
"No."
"What now?"
"We send up the flag."
She nodded.
In Wintergreen's office, Garrison and Breckinridge sat in chairs in front of Wintergreen's desk as they explained what they had learned. Garrison thought Wintergreen looked visibly stunned.
"Have we done a full workup on Alexander?"
"We just came from PRD," Garrison said. "We went through every database trying to find anything else on Garth Alexander. There was nothing but the booking photograph and the bio sketch. He has the same kind of vague history as most mercenaries."
"Hightower. Where is he in this?"
"Being standoffish."
"Just what the hell does that mean?" Wintergreen asked.
"He doesn't want me to know where he is living, and I get the impression that he is holding back."
"Have you been able to verify that?"
Garrison had guessed Wintergreen's reaction. In a developing case, the informant was always the issue.
"It's just a feeling I get. But his information has panned out so far. Every bit of it."
"Unfortunately."
Wintergreen rubbed his chin.
"Maybe we should have a showdown with Hightower," Breckinridge said looking at Garrison. "Bring him in and squeeze the full story out of him."
"I agree," Garrison said. "It's time."
Wintergreen cleared his throat. "I don't want to risk alienating an informant in a case like this."
Garrison said, "If Hightower knows more than he is telling us, we might be able to clear some of this up."
"I see where you are coming from," Wintergreen said. "Hightower has dropped a major security issue in our laps. I'm going to put the detail on full-alert status. On the other hand, we don't want to alienate the informant and end up cutting off our only pipeline into an assassination conspiracy. Then where the hell would we be?"
"He's not going to walk away from a million-dollar reward," Garrison said.
Breckinridge said she agreed.
Wintergreen formed his hands into a steeple, and then cracked his knuckles. "Informants have been known to get cold feet."
"I've had a lot of experience working with High-"
"Let Hightower do his thing for the time being," Wintergreen said. "Don't lean on him and risk blowing the case. I don't want to end up in the dark with a pro gunning for the Man. Pete, I'm going to hold you responsible for keeping Hightower engaged with us until we close this thing down. Do whatever it takes. In the meantime, surveil him. Use twenty agents if you have to. I want him followed twenty-four hours a day."
Garrison nodded. "As soon as I can find out where he is staying."
Wintergreen gave Garrison a condescending wink to close the meeting. Garrison and Breckinridge left the office and walked down the corridor.
"Talk about micromanaging a case," she said.
"I should have leaned on Hightower right at first."
"Don't beat yourself up over it. It probably wouldn't have done any good. It sounds to me like he had his plan all worked out."
Garrison liked Breckinridge's perspective. She was an experienced investigator. She was also easy to get along with. Breckinridge would make a good partner in the field. They stopped to grab a bite across from the Treasury Building at the Old Ebbitt Grille, an establishment of wood-paneled ambiance, the oldest restaurant in the capital. Sitting at the bar, they rehashed the facts and agreed that the pressure would be on them because of Wintergreen's personal interest in the case. Then she changed the subject and asked him about the pie-thrower incident that had ended his assignment to the White House Detail. He explained it.
She shook her head. "Talk about a raw deal. How did you end up on the First Lady Detail?"
"The slot was open at the time."
"Roland Prefontaine told me he didn't want to leave, but got the boot all of a sudden."
Before Garrison, Prefontaine had been the supervisor of the First Lady Detail.
"He thought it was because he did something that pissed someone off," she went on. "But no one would say. You know how those things happen. A White House mystery."
"The First Lady has never mentioned anything about him to me."
Breckinridge shrugged and glanced at her wristwatch.
"I'd better be going." She reached into her purse.
"I'll get the bill."
"Thanks, Pete. I'll get it next time."
They went back to discussing the case.
Garrison pondered the events of the day as he arrived at his apartment in the Scott Circle Arms on Rhode Island Avenue. He'd lived in the brick-front apartment house since coming to D.C. to join the Secret Service thirteen years earlier. After dialing a code number on an electronic keypad, he walked into a stifling foyer that held the D.C. humidity like an orchid farm. Unlocking his mailbox, he pulled out bills, a fishing catalogue, and a padded envelope with no return address.
On the third floor he unlocked his apartment and hurried inside to the closet to enter the ALARM OFF code on the keypad. He'd installed the alarm system a few weeks earlier. Though no one could prove it, a teenager who lived on the first floor had been burglarizing apartments to feed his narcot
ics habit, and Garrison had figured it was worth investing a few dollars on the alarm to avoid the kid stealing his gun and perhaps shooting someone.
On an assemble-yourself entertainment center in the living room was a framed photograph of Garrison's father, in Army dress uniform. He had been nineteen years old when the picture had been taken. Garrison adored him. Garrison took his gun and handcuffs from his belt and placed them on the dinette table. Attached to his key ring were a duplicate White House gun box master key and the ignition and trunk keys for the Presidential limousines. Every agent was required to carry the keys so they would be able to both gain access to White House shoulder weapons and drive the President to safety even if a limousine driver were disabled by gunfire.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Selecting some leftovers, he created a dinner that included a small tin of mandarin orange slices, half a liverwurst sandwich, a frozen French roll, and some creamed com in a Tupperware container. Carrying the items to the work counter, he ate over the sink while reading his mail. In the padded envelope were a letter and a 5 X 7 photograph of him and Eleanor standing inside the glass patio door at the Rehoboth Beach house, kissing passionately, his right hand on her breast. Garrison felt like he'd opened a coffin and found his own corpse inside.
"What the hell?" he said out loud.
A letter attached to the photograph read:
Dear Agent Garrison:
Please tell the First Lady that the price to purchase the original negative of this photo is two million dollars, a reasonable amount considering what I could get by selling it to the tabloids. I'm sure you agree that the shot would capture a big price.
If you or one of her representatives would like to discuss an amicable settlement of this matter, come to the Mayflower Hotel Bar tomorrow at noon to discuss the arrangements. I suggest you proceed discreetly. If you try any tricks, please be advised I have taken steps insuring that the photograph will be released to the worldwide press if anything goes wrong. I am only in this for the money, and once I am paid, you will never hear from me again. So I suggest you not try to get clever on me, but just go along with the program. There is an easy wav and a hard way to handle certain matters. Why not the easy way?
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