****
CHAPTER 24
GARRISON SHOWED HIS badge to the motel clerk at the Viking Ship Residence Inn in Vienna, Virginia.
"Do you have a Richardson registered here?"
The motel was a forty-room establishment that was next door to a supermarket. Fearful of renting a car, Garrison had taken the Metro from Dulles Airport to Vienna and then walked from the station to the motel.
"What's this about?" the clerk said.
He had a deep accent that Garrison guessed was East Indian. He was fiftyish and morbidly overweight. He wore a white Guayabera shirt with ink marks on the pockets and his eyeglasses were coated with dandruff flakes.
"A security matter."
"Mr. Richardson is in Room 785."
"May I see the registration card?"
Reaching into a file box behind the counter, the clerk thumbed through a few dividers, then handed Garrison a registration card. Garrison read it. Eddie Richardson had registered a week earlier, listing his address as a post office box in Bakersfield. There was neither an automobile license number nor a telephone number listed on the card.
"Has he made any telephone calls from his room?"
The clerk let out his breath as if exasperated, and checked another file. "No telephone calls."
"Have you seen him today?"
"There are too many guests staying here for me to keep track. I am not their father and mother."
"Id like you to call his room to see if he's there. If he answers, just make up some excuse-"
"I know what to do." The manager dialed the phone and held the receiver to his ear for what must have been a full minute. "No one answers." He set the receiver down.
"I'll need the key."
"Do you have a search warrant?"
"No. But if I get one, it gives me the right to kick in the door and tear up the room. Handing over the key for a few minutes could save you some repair bills."
Garrison wasn't going to wait. He had to get inside the room to see what Richardson had in there.
The manager opened a drawer, took out a key, and handed it to him.
Garrison glanced at some room numbers to figure out the location of Richardson's room. On the second floor, he put his ear to the door of Room 785. He heard a radio inside, playing loudly-a talk show? Garrison drew his gun. Using his left hand, he slipped the key into the lock and shoved the door open. The light was on. He walked inside with gun at the ready, his finger on the trigger.
There was a body on the floor next to the bed, curled in the fetal position. Garrison moved closer. It was Hightower and he was obviously dead. His grayish pallor and the expression of frozen anguish on his face would have made a startling Halloween mask. Garrison stepped back.
"What the hell?"
Garrison bolstered his gun. Kneeling down, he touched Hightower's arm. Stiff. He'd been dead for a few hours. Hightower was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. On his chest were three bloodstains that had melded together and dried into fuzzy, uneven red circles. What had Hightower been doing in Richardson's room?
Garrison stood and returned to the door. Taking the key out of the lock, he pulled the door closed. He began searching the room. A half-full bottle of Yankee Clipper whiskey was on the dresser table. The drawers held only socks and T-shirts. A small garment bag on the floor next to the bed had nothing in it but men's clothing. He lifted the mattress and pulled it away from the bed to check behind. Nothing. Garrison picked up a wallet on the bed. It contained a few hundred dollars and a Florida driver's license in the name of Eddie Richardson. The identification photograph on it was of Frank Hightower. Garrison felt a chill travel down the back of his neck.
Richardson was Frank Hightower.
What the hell is going on? Garrison asked himself. It didn't make sense. Hightower, using the fictitious name Richardson, had hired the hit man, Garth Alexander, and then reported the assassination plot to Garrison. Hightower's information had been a ruse to lead Garrison and the rest of the Secret Service away from the real conspirators. Someone had used Hightower to throw up a smoke screen. And whoever it was had just made sure that Hightower wouldn't be able to tell what he knew. It was a sophisticated plot that reeked of insider's knowledge of both the Secret Service and the White House.
In a trashcan next to the dresser Garrison found a copy of yesterday's Washington Post, some empty cigarette packages, coffee shop receipts, chewing gum wrappers, orange peels, a receipt from a Pizza Hut restaurant in Beltsville, Maryland. Someone had written, "MEET - 9 PM - EVERY OTHER DAY," on it.
"Beltsville," Garrison said to himself.
Beltsville, Maryland, was where the Secret Service Training Academy and SOT, Flanagan's special unit, were located.
The phone rang, startling Garrison. He let it ring again before picking up the receiver.
"Yes?"
"This is the motel manager. Uh, I found some more telephone records. Would you like to see them?"
"I'll be right down."
"Very good."
The phone clicked.
Garrison knew something was wrong. He could feel it. He moved to the window and peeked through the venetian blinds. The manager opened the motel office door and waved in the direction of a four-door Mercury in the corner of the parking lot, then went back inside.
Flanagan and Beatty got out of the Mercury.
Garrison realized that Flanagan had been waiting for him. How did he know he would come here? Garrison ran to the bathroom and peeked out the louvered window. To the right, a black, late-model Mercury was parked blocking the alley. The two men in it looked like Secret Service agents. To the left, the alley ended behind a tire store. A chain-link fence separated the alley from a supermarket parking lot. Garrison stood frozen for a moment, thinking about what to do, then grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911.
"Police Department emergency," a woman said. "What do you wish to report?"
"A kidnapping. I was looking out the window of my motel room and I saw two men grab a young girl and shove her in the trunk of a black Mercury. They're parked in the alley behind the Viking Ship Residence Inn. The girl was screaming. Please hurry."
There was a sound of three electronic beeps.
"A car is on the way, sir. What is your name?"
"Alexander. Garth Alexander."
"Stay where you are, sir. The officers are on their way."
"Please hurry."
He pressed OFF, and then slid panes of glass one by one from the louvered bathroom window, placing them in the bathtub. Hearing the sound of distant sirens, he looked down the alley. Police cars were screeching to a halt on either side of the Mercury. Officers jumped out and leveled guns at the agents.
"Driver!" a uniformed officer shouted. "Turn off the engine and get out of the car!"
Someone knocked on the motel room door.
Garrison's heart pounded wildly as he stepped onto the edge of the bathtub and manipulated his feet into the window opening. Slithering out, he dropped to the alley, landed feet-first and rolled to the left as he landed, the way he'd been taught in Secret Service school. The police officers and the Secret Service agents were shouting at one another. The diversion had worked. He ran across the alley and the soles of his feet stung from the drop. He vaulted the fence and ran through the supermarket parking lot. Crossing the street at a full sprint, he turned left and ran down the sidewalk to a two-story shopping mall down the block, where he jogged into a driveway. He rode the elevator to the roof and walked to the edge. Below, there was no sign of police or Secret Service activity. Garrison needed a car. On the other side of the lot, a man was getting out of a Chevrolet Malibu. Garrison pulled back his suit jacket to reveal his gun to the driver.
"All I want is your car."
The man's eyes widened and he raised his hands. "I don't have any money."
Garrison took his car keys. "If you value your car, don't call the police for an hour."
The man backed away. Garrison pulled open the driver's d
oor, climbed in, and started the engine. He sped down the ramps to the street. Turning right, he drove at the speed limit.
Spotting a service station, he got an idea and pulled the car into the service bay. A bearded young man with a long ponytail was working under a car on the next hoist. Garrison got out of the car.
"I need an oil change."
The man pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands.
"I can't have it done until five-thirty."
"Take your time."
In the service station office, Garrison wrote a fictitious name and address on a work order sheet, and then used the telephone to call a taxi. He remained in the office, keeping his eyes on the street as he waited.
****
CHAPTER 25
BRECKINRIDGE WALKED OUT the front door of Secret Service headquarters and took a deep breath. Even with the mugginess, being outside felt good. She'd been at her desk for hours, making phone calls and following up leads, none of which had panned out. Still mulling over the confusing Garrison situation, she began walking.
At the end of her shift, Breckinridge left headquarters and walked to her regular parking space on the fourth floor of the District Auto Park. Ambling to her car, she took keys from her purse and unlocked the driver's door. Something poked in the back.
"Don't turn around, Martha."
Her stomach contracted. Garrison moved close, reaching inside her jacket.
"Pete."
He took her gun, shoving it in his waistband. He took her purse. Opening the door, he tossed the purse in the backseat.
"Get in."
"Where are we going?"
"Just get in."
He was holding the gun close to his side in case anyone else in the lot was looking. She climbed behind the wheel. He walked to the passenger side of the car, and for a moment she considered jumping out and running. He got in.
"Stop aiming the gun at me."
"I will if you'll give your word you will listen to me for five minutes."
She studied him.
"Okay."
He holstered the gun.
"Martha, nothing you've ever heard is as important as what I'm about to tell you. I had nothing to do with the helicopter bombing. I'm being framed. Someone picked me to be the fall guy."
"Then why did you escape?"
"I wasn't going to sit in jail on a no-bail hold while Flanagan took his time building a phony case on me."
"Are you telling me that you believe Flanagan is knowingly framing you for an attempted assassination?"
He looked her in the eye.
"I'm not sure. All I know at this point is that someone chose me to be the scapegoat."
"If what you are saying is true, don't you see that running away plays right into their hands""
"What the hell was I supposed to do?"
"Come on, Pete. Did it ever enter your mind to follow standard procedure and go to the Director?"
"You know Wintergreen as well as I do. Do you really believe he would go against his right-hand man?"
Breckinridge studied him. He looked disheveled, but he was making some sense. He hadn't gone crazy. He was the same Garrison she knew and the expression on his face was without duplicity. He looked desperate, but she saw no indication of guilt.
"Martha, someone has gone to a lot of trouble to put me in the kill-zone. They've planted more evidence against me than there was against Lee Harvey Oswald for killing President Kennedy. They are protecting themselves by throwing up a smoke screen. This is a sophisticated frame-job using inside knowledge. Whoever is behind this knows full well that no conspiracy would be able to stand up to a full-scale post-assassination investigation. That's why they needed a scapegoat. You don't believe me, do you?"
She stared at him as she tried to assemble the facts that were bobbling about at the back of her mind in some logical, reasonable order. If he was guilty, why would he be risking contact with her rather than, say, trying to flee the country? What did he have to gain by trying to convince her of his innocence? Garrison wasn't dumb.
"Pete, how did you end up at that Aryan Disciples accommodation address in the Sperling Finance Building?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Then I don't believe anything you are telling me."
"If I told you it would violate a confidence."
"Bullshit."
"You're just going to have to trust-"
"You just pulled a gun on me. That violated a confidence. What the hell is going on, Pete? This isn't a game. Level with me, for God's sake."
"There are certain things I can't go into."
"Pete, you just told me you believe that there is a plot against the President and your life is in danger. If that is true, there should be nothing you would hold back to convince me of what you are saying. The time for secrets is over. This is it. It's all or nothing for you. And as of right now, I don't believe you."
"I'm asking you to trust me."
"Put yourself in my place. What if I came to you with this same story and then refused to tell you everything - if I told you I didn't want to violate a confidence. Would you believe me?" Garrison rubbed his temples. He looked pale. "If you didn't think you could trust me, why the hell are you here?"
Garrison let out his breath.
"I went to the Sperling Finance Building to investigate a blackmail attempt on the First Lady." He told her about finding evidence in Garth Alexander's motel room, then receiving the blackmail letter and the photograph.
"Who was in the photograph?"
Garrison licked his lips.
"The First Lady and me."
"You mean-?"
He looked embarrassed and lost. "Yes."
She told herself that he either was, in fact, fully insane, or telling the uncomfortable truth.
"You dumb shit."
"It was just something that happened. It wasn't planned-"
"Go ahead. Let's hear the rest of it."
He told her the following: that he'd shown the blackmail letter to the First Lady; that he'd subsequently gone to the Mayflower Hotel; that he'd been directed to the Sperling Finance Building but the blackmailer had never arrived; that a man he'd suspected of being the blackmailer had gotten the drop on him and knocked him out, and later had turned out to be an FBI agent; that the informant Frank Hightower, responsible for reporting the assassination conspiracy, had been murdered.
"What?"
"I found a driver's license in the name of Eddie Richardson on Hightower's body."
"Hightower..." she said.
"Someone was using him. Hightower was nothing but a rat. He was in it for money. But he's no extremist and he wasn't heavy enough to have engineered this whole thing on his own."
"Exactly what was he up to?"
"For one thing, making it appear that the Aryan Disciples were involved in the assassination of the President."
"Which means they probably aren't."
"Yes."
Breckinridge ran a hand though her hair as she contemplated the facts.
"And the same unnamed conspirators sent Alexander to kill you...."
"Because it was obvious that an agent had to have been the one who planted the C-4 on Marine One," Garrison said. "They had to have an agent scapegoat to cover the tracks of the agent who actually did it. They wanted to make it look like the Aryan Disciples had used me and then gotten rid of me. Look at it like this: If Alexander had succeeded in killing me, all that would have been left was a trail of evidence leading straight to me and I wouldn't have been there to counter it - the way the evidence trail died with Lee Harvey Oswald. I was set up to be the Secret Service agent who sold out to the Aryan Disciples."
Breckinridge ran a finger along her upper lip. What Garrison was saying was both bizarre and terrifying. But, admittedly, there was an undeniable logic to it all.
"You don't believe the Aryan Disciples are behind this, do you?" Breckinridge asked.
"Why would they hire a hit man whose con
nections led back to them? Have they done that in other cases?"
"Then who is trying to kill the Man, for God's sake? Who are we talking about?"
"I found a receipt for the Pizza Hut in Beltsville in Hightower's room. It had some writing on it that I believe were contact instructions. Flanagan and OFCO operate out of Beltsville-"
"Surely you're not going to hang your hat on that."
"Flanagan showed up at Hightower's motel. He must have had the place staked out before I got there. How did he know where Hightower was staying? Hightower had refused to tell me."
"Pete, Hightower must have realized that getting involved in something like this was risky - that it would fly back in his face."
"That's my point exactly. Hightower was two-faced, but he wasn't dumb. He would have realized his role would eventually surface. But he took the chance because he thought he was backed up. I knew Hightower. He would never have gone along with something like this - with double-crossing any other agent or me - unless backstopped by someone in authority. I can see Flanagan selling Hightower some phony story about me being involved in something. He could have offered him a lot of confidential-fund money to go along with an internal investigation. And being in charge of SOT, Flanagan has access to all the informant files. He could gain access to them without going through the normal headquarters records process. He would have been looking for an informant who was reliable, had some connection with the Aryan Disciples, and who knew me."
Her thoughts were at the back of her mind where the big decisions are formed.
"Flanagan," she said softly. "Flanagan would never do anything without Wintergreen's approval. They're tied at the hip." Garrison met her eyes. She went on. "They certainly are. But it's a major leap to believe that they are involved in a conspiracy-"
"Martha, I'm not imagining all this."
"But what would be Wintergreen's motive?"
"He's not acting on his own. For all we know, a hostile foreign power could have bought Wintergreen. Or maybe the CIA. Both he and Flanagan were CIA case officers. Jordan is an unpopular President. Wintergreen took Marine One to Camp David. He could have planted the bomb-"
"If it's a plot to take over the government, why launch it at the end of a Presidential Administration? Why not just wait a few months when Jordan will be out of the White House?"
The Sentinel Page 19
