Delgarian flashed back to the Gulf War - trying to land with shrapnel damage to his craft. The throttle hadn't worked for a while then; finally, he'd regained control and managed to land safely. He'd been spared. But nothing was working now. This was it. He'd used up his luck.
As the craft turned fully upside down, carrying him toward earth as military wreckage, he heard himself shouting....
****
CHAPTER 16
IT WAS DARK as Martha Breckinridge sped north, through an unlighted, wooded area with little traffic. She was about fifty miles from Washington, D.C., on Highway 194. Director Wintergreen had awakened her an hour earlier with a telephone call, informing her of the helicopter crash.
"I want you to assume control of the investigation, classify it top secret, and make sure the press is kept away," he'd said.
"194 near Le Gore, Maryland," Kallenstien said referring to "Mr. Grid," the specially marked Secret Service world map book that was open on her lap. "We should be close. I guess it was too much for Wintergreen to give you the coordinates. But that's assuming he knows how to read a map...."
Breckinridge nodded. Having awakened from a sound sleep, she was still trying to will herself awake. She needed a cup of coffee.
"They must think this is an Aryan Disciples thing if they called you," Kallenstien said.
Kallenstien pointed to the right of the highway, toward flashing red and yellow lights. As they drove closer, the scene came into view: A police light truck was aiming its heavy candlepower at a jumble of twisted, blackened helicopter wreckage surrounded by a grayish pool of fire-retardant foam. Breckinridge slowed and then swerved onto an unpaved road that followed the edge of a furrowed field that was indented with tire tracks from the three fire engines and four police cars parked nearby. At the edge of the foam, yellow ponchos covered two bodies,
Breckinridge stopped the car and turned off the engine. They got out. They trudged across the field toward the destruction. A uniformed police officer stopped them. They showed badges and the officer led them to a man wearing Levi's and a leatherjacket who was making notes on an illuminated clipboard. The officer told him they were Secret Service agents.
"I'm Ernest Santovecchia, National Transportation Safety Board. I'm in charge here."
Breckinridge introduced herself and Kallenstien. Santovecchia didn't offer his hand.
"Whataya have so far?" Breckinridge asked.
"I'm not able to share that with you without authorization."
"Mr. Santovecchia, have you ever met the Director of your agency?" Breckinridge asked politely.
Santovecchia furrowed his brow. "Once."
Kallenstien took out her cellular phone and dialed a number.
"Would you recognize his voice?" Breckinridge asked.
"I think so."
Kallenstien handed the phone to Breckinridge.
"White House Signal Board," a female operator said.
"This is Agent Breckinridge - Protective Research Division. I need the Director of the National Transportation Safety Board on a secure line. Authorization Blue Sunday. Flash priority."
"Blue Sunday?"
"Roger."
"Stand by, Agent Breckinridge."
Less than a minute later, the phone beeped and a man came on the line.
"Agent Breckinridge? This is Leo Whitehall, Director of the National Transportation Safety Board."
"You're aware of the Marine One incident?"
"Yes-"
"I'm standing here with Mr. Santovecchia, who works for you. I want you to instruct him to cooperate with me."
"You are invoking Blue Sunday?"
"Correct."
She handed Santovecchia the phone. Blue Sunday was a code word for Standing Executive Order 350-8, requiring every government agency, including all branches of the military, to cooperate with U.S. Secret Service agents in the performance of their protective and investigative responsibilities relating to the protection of the President.
"Sir? Yes, sir."
Santovecchia looked dumbfounded as he handed Breckinridge the phone.
"All I have at this point is that the helicopter had transported the First Lady and some other officials to Camp David yesterday and was scheduled to fly the President back to the House last night," Santovecchia said. "The President wasn't on board this flight because, at the last minute, he decided to motorcade back to D.C. with the Russian President. The pilot had orders to return to Andrews Air Force Base as a deadhead, and reported an explosion in the aircraft before he went down."
"Have you established that it, in fact, was an explosion?" Breckinridge asked.
He led them to the wreckage and shined his flashlight on a large hole in the starboard side. The metal was twisted from inside out. There was faint whiteness on the shards.
"That's bomb damage, all right," Kallenstien said.
Breckinridge knelt close. "The bomb was planted inside."
"Sounds like you people had a security problem," Santovecchia said.
"That white substance," Breckinridge said. "Have you ever seen anything like that before?"
"I tested it with a field kit. It's military C-4. The whiteness is because it has a slow bum rate, unlike black powder-"
"You have experience investigating bomb incidents like this?" Kallenstien asked.
"Dozens of them."
Breckinridge stood. "Have you told anyone else about your findings?"
"Absolutely not. And there have been no press inquiries. The public safety agencies here still have no idea that this is Marine One."
"Let no one else approach the wreckage," Breckinridge said. "Move the police line back and stand by here for the FBI and ATF forensic teams. I want everything humanly possible done to insure that we extract every bit of physical evidence from this wreckage - without regard to cost or manpower. That means, if necessary, I can provide you a hundred agents or anything else you need. And I am ordering you not to tell anyone except your Director what I just said. This investigation is now classified top secret. Agent Kallenstien will be working with you."
"Yes, ma'am."
"I want you to put out a cover story through your press-relations people that it wasn't foul play - that you are sure it is something else."
"Am I to take that as an order under your authority?"
"Yes.
"A rotor problem," Kallenstien said.
"That should fly," he said making a note on his clipboard.
"Sounds good to me."
Santovecchia moved toward a group of officers standing near a fire engine.
Breckinridge dialed the White House Signal Board emergency line.
"This is Agent Breckinridge, Protective Research Division," she said to the operator. "I'm calling a K-3 Special Incident. Have the Agents-in-Charge of Liaison Division and Forensic Division meet me on Tac Four at-"
"Grid 13 Yankee One," Kallenstien said. Breckinridge repeated the grid designation.
"Wilco, Breckinridge," said the operator. Breckinridge pressed OFF.
"It had to be an agent," Kallenstien said softly so the police office standing nearby wouldn't hear.
Breckinridge nodded. Kallenstien was right. No one else except the pilots and the Secret Service, and a few communications technicians and State Department employees, had been in the Presidential helicopter.
A sedan swerved off the highway onto the dirt road and drove to the officer standing at the perimeter. Wintergreen got out of the car and trudged through the dirt to join Breckinridge and Kallenstien. Breckinridge introduced him to Santovecchia.
"I'd like to speak to Breckinridge alone," Wintergreen said.
Kallenstien and Santovecchia moved away.
"Is it sabotage, Martha?"
"Yes."
"What is your theory?"
"It had to be someone with access."
"What is your investigative plan?"
"I'll develop suspects from the helicopter access list. It could be someone in the Marine maintena
nce crew."
"And if those leads don't pan out?"
"Then I'll start interviewing the agents who had access to the chopper."
He nodded. "Pete Garrison had problems with the polygraph test. No one knows except the polygraph examiner and me. Garrison showed deception when asked about Presidential security. It was her opinion that he was definitely hiding something. She gave him a chance to clear up whatever it was, but he declined. I consider it odd. Very odd."
"Garrison? It could be a mistake on a polygraph-"
"He is a bomb expert. U.S. Army trained. His first assignment in the Service was to the bomb detail."
"I'm aware of that, but-"
"But what?"
"I know him. He doesn't ... He couldn't-" Wintergreen was actually naming Pete as a suspect, and she was astounded.
"Do you agree it's possible he might be involved?"
There was a silence as Breckinridge ruminated over what he was saying. "I guess anything is possible."
"I was doing some thinking on the drive out. It occurred to me that maybe this thing with Garrison's informant - Hightower - could be a scenario he created to cover his tracks. He could be trying to make it look like there is some other agent working for the Aryan Disciples, when in actuality it's him. Garrison is clever enough to realize that part of a Presidential assassination attempt would be a veil to cover up the ones who did it - some disinformation planted here and there to throw us off. This would be common."
"Let me get this straight, Mr. Director. Are you saying that you believe that both Garrison and his informant Frank Hightower may be in on the assassination attempt?"
"Yes. But I'm not making any direct accusations at this point. You and I are speaking in confidence. But I believe the Garrison angle needs to be fully explored. The chopper blew up. It goes without saying that the person who did it had to have special access. No outsider got into one of our choppers - or into Camp David for that matter."
"What would be Garrison's motive?"
Wintergreen stared at the wreckage, and the emergency lights danced across his face.
"That's for you to find out. That is, unless you would rather be removed from the case. I should have asked this before. Are you a close friend of Garrison?"
"No, but-"
"What is it, Martha? Tell me what is on your mind."
"Frankly, I don't think Garrison is the kind of person who would ever get involved in anything like that."
"That's the way it is in these kinds of cases. It's always an insider who no one suspects. Would you rather have me assign someone else to handle the investigation? If so, tell me now. I certainly won't hold it against you."
"I'll handle the case."
"I'm looking for a full-court press - taking the case wherever it goes. I want you to pull out all the stops."
"I'll handle it."
"I don't see Garrison falling for any extremist line. If I were you, I'd concentrate on money as a motive. The Aryan Disciples have plenty of it. Maybe Garrison wanted to get rich."
"I'll look into it."
"If we have someone operating us from the inside, we have no time to waste. Not one second. Cut Garrison out of the loop in your investigation from here on. Avoid him. He is to be considered a suspect. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
But she couldn't see Garrison as a turncoat. It just didn't fit with what she knew about him.
"Keep me informed at every step."
"Okay."
As he walked back toward his car, the sun was coming up. Breckinridge turned her head from the brightness.
"What was that all about?" Kallenstien asked.
Breckinridge told her what Wintergreen had said.
"Goddamn."
"Rachel, I don't think Garrison is guilty of anything like this."
Breckinridge shifted her weight from one foot to another. There was dirt in her shoes.
"I don't either," said Kallenstien. "As far as I am concerned, lie-detectors are baloney."
"Once, when I was in the police department, they called me in to the Internal Affairs office and told me that an informant had named my partner as having been involved in a series of on-duty burglaries. There had been no question then. I'd had a feeling he'd been up to no good for a long time, but I just couldn't prove it. But Garrison doesn't fit with being involved in terrorism or, for that matter, being compromised at all. Unless I'm missing something, unless Garrison has some evil part of his personality that is completely hidden, Wintergreen is barking up the wrong tree. Garrison isn't good for this. Someone could say the same thing about you or me."
"On the other hand, there is always the unknown about people. You think you know someone, and then all of a sudden the truth comes out."
"I have a funny feeling about all of this." Breckinridge knew there was no end to disappointments in law enforcement and security work. But it didn't matter. "What happened to Charlie ... and now this. Nothing like this has ever happened before in the Service. Something is wrong."
"Garrison being in with the bad guys could wreck our operations. There is no doubt about that."
Kallenstien nodded. "And what if it isn't him? What then?"
"Then someone else-"
"Someone in headquarters. Someone high up in the chain. This isn't some junior agent who planned this one out."
****
CHAPTER 17
THE TELEPHONE RANG. Garrison awoke, and reached to the nightstand and picked up the receiver.
"Hello."
"This is White House Signal Operator 23," a woman said. "I just got a call from someone named Frank who was trying to reach you. He wouldn't give his last name and said he wanted to talk to you about a Presidential threat. He said it was an emergency. He left a phone number."
"Hold on."
Garrison dropped his feet to the floor, opened the nightstand drawer, and took out a pen and pad. He wrote down the number she gave him.
"Thanks."
He pressed the cradle, and then dialed the number. Hightower answered on the first ring.
"What's up, Frank?"
"We need to meet."
Garrison glanced at the clock radio. The display showed 6:03 A.M.
"The museum is closed to the public right now."
"How about, say, K Street and Connecticut?"
"See you there in a half hour."
Garrison put the receiver down and rubbed his eyes. It wasn't unusual for Hightower to reach him through the White House operator. During Garrison's PRD days, he'd met Hightower often on his way to work. Hightower knew Garrison walked, rather than drove to work every day. Garrison ran a hand through his hair. He'd come to believe that Hightower was trying to put something over on him. There was no one issue on which he could base his suspicion, but rather a combination of things, including Hightower's tone of voice and body language, his omission of certain relevant facts, and the way he was doling out information. All of this was nothing like when Garrison had dealt with him in the past. It was as if Hightower might be working from a prepared script. Garrison told himself that it had gone on long enough. He was going to confront Hightower and insist that he take a polygraph test. It had come to that. Garrison knew that informants were indispensable to both intelligence and security work, but they were also dangerous.
Garrison dressed and put on his gun and handcuffs. Locking his apartment, he departed.
As he walked along Rhode Island Avenue toward M Street, the commuter traffic was beginning to pick up. Garrison worried about the lie-detector test he'd submitted to. He hoped the operator had chalked up his problems with some of the questions to an anomaly. If not, he was going to be in for more questioning.
A brown late-model Honda with tinted windows slowly drove by. The driver wore dark glasses and a baseball hat. Maybe the driver was lost, Garrison told himself. After all, though Washington, D.C., was the best-planned city in the U.S., tourists often had trouble finding their way through its labyrinth of one-way streets. As Garr
ison neared the middle of the block, the Honda drove past again. Was the driver eyeing him? People lost in traffic usually focused on street signs and landmarks rather than pedestrians. What was he up to? Garrison crossed the street to an outdoor newsstand adjacent to St. Matthew's Cathedral. He picked up a copy of the Washington Post.
"Don't look now," Garrison said to the seller, a young dark-skinned man. "But is there a Honda across the street?"
The man focused across the street. "Yes."
"The driver. What's he doing?"
"Looking this way. Is everything okay, mister?"
"I'm not sure."
Garrison paid for the paper, then tucked it under his arm and continued along the street. At the corner, he headed south on Connecticut Avenue.
The Honda drove by.
Reaching De Sales Street, Garrison saw the Honda again coming north on Connecticut. About a half block up the street, it pulled to the curb in a no-parking zone. If Garrison continued the way he was going, he would have to pass by it. He knew that a trained surveillance agent would never park facing him. They would park farther away and use binoculars to monitor him. But if the driver wasn't a Secret Service agent assigned to surveillance duties, who was he? Garrison knew he'd made enemies working against terrorist groups. And he knew that terrorists frequently talked about how they'd like to kill a federal agent. Could the Aryan Disciples have targeted him? He decided to find out.
South of K Street, he turned left and walked into an office building. Crossing the lobby, he asked a young woman stepping out of the elevator for directions to the rear exit. She pointed. Making his way out the back door, he followed an alley east to 18th Street, then turned south to K Street. Heading back to Connecticut Avenue, he circled behind the Honda. Garrison pulled his SIG-Sauer. Holding it under the newspaper, he walked into the street. Remaining in what he believed was the driver's blind spot, he approached the Honda from behind, moving toward the driver's door. Reaching the car. Garrison held his badge out. The man reacted with an audible "uh" sound.
"Why are you following me?"
"I'm just waiting for someone."
Garrison's danger radar alerted a sixth-sense alarm that activated when the right stimuli reached the brain's danger-survival center. The driver was wearing skin-colored latex gloves. He had a thin, red scar under his left eye. Garrison pictured him without the cap and sunglasses he was wearing. Could he be Garth Alexander, the mercenary whose room Garrison and Breckinridge had searched at the Plantation Motel? Garrison recalled that in Alexander's mug shot that Breckinridge had shown him, Alexander had had black hair. But now his hair was reddish. It was a wig. Garrison hadn't recognized him earlier because of the tinted window glass.
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