The Sentinel

by Gerald Petievich

  Breckinridge shook her head. "No, thanks," she said softly.

  "If you'll excuse me, I have a customer waiting."

  Breckinridge nodded. The operations officer walked toward a desk where a man and woman were waiting. Breckinridge sat in stunned silence as she considered the import of what she had found.

  "There is no way Garrison is going to be able to explain his way out of two hundred grand being deposited into his personal account on the day the Man's chopper is sabotaged," Kallenstien said.

  "Rachel, I don't believe he is guilty."

  "You think someone spent two large just to falsely incriminate him?"

  "I don't believe he is involved in any Presidential assassination conspiracy. I just don't see it."

  "How well do you know him?"

  "Not that well. But I haven't seen anything so far that would lead me to believe that he is involved in something like this. No clue whatsoever."

  "Were not psychics, Martha. If you got involved in defending someone from this kind of a charge and it turned out that he actually was guilty, you could be cutting your own throat. You know how the Service treats agents who go against the grain."

  Breckinridge had a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach. There was something wrong and she couldn't put her finger on it. "And if Garrison is innocent?"

  "Don't get angry at me. I'm just trying to figure out where you are coming from. I'm just pointing out some issues-"

  "I know I'm not explaining my doubts clearly, but it's not just Garrison. There is something about this that is all too pat. It's as if someone is tying Garrison up in a nice big package for some prosecutor. This isn't the way the average assassination case comes together."

  "It did for Lee Harvey Oswald."

  "Oswald was a psycho, a screwball. Garrison has undergone every test and trial that you and I have. He's not a nut case. Its possible that someone could have set him up."

  "Who, for God's sake? Who could it be?"

  Breckinridge rubbed her temples. "I don't know."

  "Martha, you and I both know that it had to be an agent. No one in the Aryan Disciples got inside that helicopter and planted a bomb. That is a given. Don't you agree?"

  "Yes. But that doesn't mean I think it is him." Breckinridge stood, took out her cell phone, and dialed Wintergreen's number. He answered. "Breckinridge here. I've completed the bank records search." She told him the result of the records check.

  "Very interesting," he said. "Now head for the courthouse and get a search warrant for Garrison's apartment."

  "Shouldn't he be interviewed first?"

  "That's being handled. Call me the moment you have the warrant."

  He gave her Garrison's address, and she wrote it down. The telephone clicked.

  "What now?" Kallenstien asked after Breckinridge set the phone down.

  "It's search-warrant time."

  At Scott Circle, Breckinridge steered her sedan to the curb in front of Garrison's apartment house. Wintergreen was already there, standing on the sidewalk, waiting.

  "Never seen Wintergreen out on a case," Kallenstien said.

  "Neither have I."

  Breckinridge nodded agreement, and she and Kallenstien got out of the car. Breckinridge showed Wintergreen the search warrant. She and Kallenstien had written it with the help of the duty officer at the U.S. Attorney's office, and then had taken it to a federal judge for signature. Wintergreen read it quickly.

  "Let's do it," he said.

  At Garrison's apartment, Breckinridge tried the door. It was locked. Peeking through the crack in the door, she determined that there was a dead-bolt lock above the handle. She returned to her car and got a pry bar from the trunk. Returning to the apartment, she pried the door open. An alarm sounded. They went inside and began hunting for the alarm box.

  A middle-aged woman came to the door with a baseball bat in her hand.

  "Hands up!'"

  Wintergreen had his badge out. "Federal officers."

  "I'm the manager here. What's going on?"

  "We have a federal search warrant."

  "Pete Garrison lives here and he is a U.S. Secret Service agent."

  "We know," Breckinridge said, and gently took the bat from her. "This is an administrative matter."

  "Is Pete in trouble?"

  "You'll have to ask him," Breckinridge said.

  "I live next door and heard the alarm."

  "Ma'am, I'll have to ask you to leave. I'll give you your bat back later."

  "I hope Pete is okay," the woman said before departing.

  Kallenstien opened the closet door. "Here's the alarm." She turned it off.

  "Are you going to participate in the search, Mr. Director?" Breckinridge asked.

  "You two go ahead. I'm just here to monitor the investigation."

  He took out his cell phone and began dialing as he walked toward the kitchen.

  "I'll take the bedroom," Kallenstien said.

  Breckinridge began searching the living room, lifting sofa cushions, moving furniture. She heard Wintergreen on the phone, telling someone that they were inside the apartment. It felt strange searching Garrison's home. She knew him, if only casually, but nevertheless it was a personal, invasive thing to do to someone, a violation. She went through Garrison's fishing and hunting magazines and some copies of the Journal of Explosive Ordnance, a professional publication for U.S. Army bomb experts. There was nothing in his entertainment center but some Jerry Vale and Elton John CDs.

  Wintergreen joined her. Seeing that there wasn't much to search, he walked into the bedroom.

  With the living room search completed, Breckinridge walked into the kitchen, which she thought was relatively clean and neat considering that most men were pigs when it came to cleaning. She opened drawers and cupboards. Nothing but dishes and glasses. One drawer was filled with bill receipts and other home miscellanea. She opened the refrigerator. On the top shelf was a flat, rectangular piece of yellowish, putty-like material about an inch thick and a foot long. She touched it. It was malleable. She'd first seen it in Secret Service training school, and over the years she'd found it more than once when searching the homes of suspected terrorists. It was military-grade C-4 explosive material, also known as plastique. She was aware that in its inert form, it was completely safe.

  "Rachel," she said loudly.

  Kallenstien hurried into the kitchen. "My God. He was keeping it right here."

  Wintergreen joined them. Breckinridge shoved the refrigerator door closed. Wintergreen stared at the bomb material. He turned away, took out his cell phone, and began dialing.

  "No wonder he put an alarm system in," said Breckinridge.

  "Garrison could get the death sentence," Kallenstien said softly.

  Breckinridge nodded. She felt dizzy.

  Wintergreen departed a few minutes later, still making calls on his cell phone. A Secret Service forensics team arrived about twenty minutes later. For the next few hours Breckinridge supervised them as they took photographs and lifted fingerprints. Finally, as they began to leave, Breckinridge felt enervated.

  "Rachel, you know Garrison," Breckinridge said. "Would you ever think that he could be involved in something like this?"

  "No. But I've been surprised before. Maybe it's one of those things. Maybe there are secrets in his life."

  "But assassination?"

  "I'll admit it strains the imagination."

  Breckinridge nodded agreement, but she felt as if she was in a forest and had just heard something, someone walking among the trees, hidden in the darkness. It was there, but what was it?

  "Have you ever seen Wintergreen out in the field like this before?" Breckinridge asked.

  "Not on even the most serious internal investigations in cases involving the most credible Presidential threats. He's never been known for dirtying his hands. Not even before he was Director. He was always the one who arrived early at the press conference after the case was over."

  "He's definitely tak
ing a personal interest in this one, isn't he?"

  "He must really believe Garrison is good for this. He must figure this case is different than the others."

  "It's different, all right," Breckinridge said.

  "What are you getting at?"

  "I don't know. But there are a lot of funny things going on."

  ****

  CHAPTER 19

  GARRISON RESTED HIS elbows on the dining table as he waited for Flanagan to finish making a phone call. The call had been a welcome break from the questioning. During the last couple of hours, Flanagan had asked him every question anyone could possibly think of. Garrison was fed up and angry at the whole absurd process, and he has having trouble keeping his patience.

  Flanagan said "Okay" to the party on the telephone. He set the receiver down, looked Garrison in the eye, and then smiled.

  "Gotcha."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "A search team just found two pounds of C-4 in your apartment."

  As Garrison tried to come to terms with what was happening, poisonous bile of anger rose in his throat and spread to his temples, to the top of his head.

  "What the hell are you talking about'?"

  "What do you want me to do, draw you a diagram?"

  "Someone is trying to frame me. I ask you. What would be my motive? Why in God's name would I want to kill the President?"

  "We have motive covered. We know about the two hundred thousand dollars transferred into your bank account from an offshore account. They have the bank ledger."

  Garrison's hands felt cold. "If I was involved in a Presidential assassination plot, would I be dumb enough to put money into a bank account?"

  It was now clear. He, Garrison, was in the middle of a sophisticated assassination conspiracy. He was the scapegoat. Now it was no longer a matter of waiting for someone to clear him, of letting the system take its course. The cards were stacked and who knows how many Secret Service insiders were involved. Could Flanagan be one of them? He'd always been on the outskirts of the Secret Service, gravitating to the special quasi-legal SOT unit, and remaining there when he could have requested a transfer to a protective detail or some other normal line assignment.

  Flanagan spoke. "Lee Harvey Oswald had photographs in his home of him posing with the rifle he used to assassinate President Kennedy. It's like this: You never thought anyone was going to find out. And the offshore bank is one of those that doesn't cooperate with the authorities. Someone opens an account, transfers money into your account, then closes the account."

  "Flanagan, even you should realize that by focusing on me, the heat is being kept off the real conspirators. Don't you see? Whoever is responsible for the helicopter bombing is using me as a patsy. They must have decided it was worth two hundred grand to divert the investigation, so they dropped cash into my account. And they planted C-4 in my apartment. You can't just go along with this. Whether you realize it or not, you are playing a part in a frame-job that someone spent a lot of time planning."

  "Let me tell you a little story," Flanagan said, scowling at him. "There once was a Secret Service Agent who stepped on his dick and ended up getting transferred off the Man's detail. The agent is resentful, confused, and angry with the Director, the President, and the system. So, the agent decides to do something about it - to get back at the system. He makes contact with the Aryan Disciples and offers some inside help to kill the Man. They like the idea, and the agent cuts himself a nice, fat deal. What do you think of that story, Garrison?"

  "I think you are an imbecile and a donkey."

  Flanagan tapped his pencil on the table. "Whoever hired you used you to plant the bomb, then sent a hit man to shut you up."

  "Thirteen years as an agent, someone plants evidence in my apartment, and suddenly I'm a Presidential assassin? How utterly absurd."

  "If the explosion had killed the President and Alexander had gotten away with killing you, it would have been the perfect caper. But you saw the hit coming. I owe you credit for that. But why sit there and take the rap for the goddamn Aryan Disciples? Why not take advantage of the fact that they screwed up? We can do a deal for your cooperation. You might be able to save your life. I ask you. Why take the fall? Why walk the plank for a group of terrorists?"

  "I'm not taking the fall for anybody - not now or later. No matter how much phony evidence someone has dropped on your doorstep, I am innocent. I'm asking you to use your head. I'm asking you to believe me."

  Flanagan smiled. "But I don't."

  "Am I under arrest?"

  It was no use talking. No use whatsoever. Flanagan was narrow-minded and stupid.

  "The U.S. Attorney has ordered you held as a material witness under the authority of the Anti-Terrorism Statute. I'm sure you're aware that the AT statute-"

  "I know as much about it as you do."

  And he did. He knew that the statute had created a special federal court with the power to authorize U.S. agents to hold suspects without bail during "priority terrorism" investigations. Congress had passed the law as a reaction to the Aryan Disciples bombings of federal office buildings.

  "Then why fight City Hall?" said Flanagan.

  Garrison's lips and face tingled apprehensively. "I want to make a phone call."

  "To?"

  "That's none of your business."

  "Under the AT statute, material witnesses aren't allowed to communicate with anyone until a U.S. District Judge gives his permission."

  He knew Flanagan was right. "Then I want to talk to a judge."

  "The AT judges aren't available. It's like this, Garrison. Either talk to me or I book you into the federal lockup. Unless you're ready to roll over, you're finished."

  Garrison stared sullenly at the carpet. He wasn't going to be able to convince Flanagan of anything. The man's mind was made up. Garrison knew that he was the fall guy in a sophisticated plot under way to kill the President of the United States - a scheme that probably involved a Secret Service agent. The time for talking, for trying to reason, was over. Garrison had to change the course of events. No matter what the cost, he wasn't going to allow Flanagan to book him into the D.C. federal lockup. He wasn't going to sit in limbo hoping that some court-appointed attorney would clear him while Flanagan was out busily collecting other spurious information planted by the Aryan Disciples that could be used against him. That would allow the real conspirators to complete their assassination plans. In a wave of controlled fear and deadly resolve, Garrison made a decision he knew would change his life forever.

  "Okay."

  Flanagan looked genuinely surprised. "Okay what?"

  "I'm ready to make a statement," he said softly.

  Barely able to conceal his satisfaction, Flanagan stood and walked to the door.

  "Beatty, come down here!" There was the sound of footsteps. Beatty walked into the room. "Garrison is going to tell us his story and you're going to write up what he says."

  "No problem."

  Beatty pulled back a chair and sat across the table from Garrison.

  "I'm thirsty," Garrison said.

  "Get him a drink of water," Flanagan said.

  Beatty got up, walked around the table to Garrison's right, and then pushed open a swinging door that led to the kitchen. The moment Garrison heard the sound of the water faucet he dove across the table and ratcheted his arm securely around Flanagan's neck. Flanagan made frantic grunting sounds. Adrenaline surged through Garrison's veins, and he held the chokehold and yanked Flanagan's SIG-Sauer from his cross-draw holster

  "Don't make me do it, " Garrison whispered, and pressed the barrel to Flanagan's right temple. Flanagan stopped struggling. Garrison released him, and motioned him back to his chair with the gun. Flanagan complied. "Move from the chair and I'll kill you."

  Garrison aimed the gun at him under the table, and Flanagan returned to his chair.

  The door opened. Beatty walked in carrying a glass of water.

  Garrison swung the gun in his direct
ion.

  "Hands on top of your head." Beatty raised his hands, dropped the glass. "Face the wall."

  Beatty turned. Garrison moved to him and took his gun. Shoving it in his waistband, he moved to the other side of the table, grabbed Flanagan by the collar, and shoved him toward Beatty.

  He forced Flanagan and Beatty into the kitchen at gunpoint.

  "We're just doing our job," Flanagan said as Garrison cautiously used handcuffs to lock both of them to the drainpipe under the sink.

  "If I'm a real Presidential assassin, what do I have to lose?"

  "Don't shoot, please."

  Garrison took Beatty's car keys.

  "Shut up."

  Returning to the dining room, Garrison dropped Flanagan's gun on the table, grabbed Flanagan's briefcase, and departed from the kitchen door.

  As he climbed into Flanagan's car, Garrison's temples were pulsing. He sped away, feeling as alone as he'd ever been in his entire life.

  Garrison pulled into an office-building parking lot on L Street. He parked the car, turned off the engine, and used his cellular telephone to dial 911.

  "Police emergency," a woman said.

  "There are two people tied up in the kitchen at 829 Westboro Avenue, North West," Garrison said. "You'd better send a car."

  "May I have your name, Sir?"

  "Gilbert Flanagan."

  Garrison pressed the OFF button.

  Garrison opened Flanagan's briefcase, took out his gun, and reholstered it. He opened a folder in the briefcase containing a copy of the PRD file on Garth Alexander.

  CONFIDENTIAL

  NAME: Alexander, Garth Clement AKA: Ronnie Roberts, Carl Bronkirk, Ray Waters

  ADDRESS: 29 Rue La Boetie, Paris

  AFFILIATION: Aryan Disciples of the United States - associate

  DESCRIPTION: Male, Caucasian, 6' 1", 210, 41 years old.

  SCARS, MARKS, TATTOOS: Tattoo mermaid nailed to a cross covering full chest, panther on right upper arm, dog with army helmet on left forearm, "Corsican Boy" on upper back.