Too Secret Service: Part One

by Declan Finn

  Catherine dropped the wallet and sprinted down the block, perpendicular to the pedestrian in the USMC sweater. The the inch-long blade was buried so deep in the flesh, the entry would wipe the fingerprints from it. She turned the corner and decided a good run to her car would be beneficial to her health. She didn’t want to go through the awkward business of having the Company get her out of trouble with the police…assuming they’d bother. She didn’t know if she had “kite” status and highly doubted it, but she didn’t want to find out after they cut her loose to fly away on her own.

  Catherine turned on the street where she had left her car. The black VW Bug she had rented sat in the center of the block, where she had parked it only two hours before, between a blue Tempo and a black sedan. As usual, she slipped on a pair of gloves before stepping into her car. She slowed her pace to a quick walk, taking the keys from her pocket.

  She was about to work her way around the car to get to the driver’s side when she thought of something. How many tourists were there in Virginia at the start of November? One was the streetwalker.

  There were very few chances to pass off a hit like a normal, everyday killing. One was your typical mugging; another popular method was a car jacking. They had already tried the former, and all that was needed for the latter was a driver trying to get into her car, and wounds inflicted at close range.

  Most likely a knife.

  Catherine gripped her keys tighter as she flipped the longest on the key ring forward like a switchblade. She walked around the front bumper and made a movement to unlock the door when the second attempt came.

  This attacker sprung out of the sedan and charged at her. He held his arm forward as a shield, his body turned so his left side faced her, a knife held low and ready to strike in his right hand. He rushed toward her and lashed out with his weapon. Catherine crossed her wrists and raised them, catching his wrist between them. She pulled her left hand backwards, locking the attacker’s arm in place. With her right, she jabbed the key down into his eye, then chopped her left hand into his windpipe, crushing it. She pulled the key out as he staggered back, blind and suffocating. He fell onto his back on the asphalt beside his driver’s side door.

  STRONGBOW walked over to the door of her assailant’s car and, with the tip of her toe, yanked the handle back, throwing it open. She grabbed him around the chest and lifted him up and into the front seat. She shoved him back and climbed halfway into the car with him.

  It was a well-laid trap, she had to admit: allay the suspect’s suspicions by sending a petty thug to try and kill her, knowing he’d be dead by the end of it—even if he had succeeded.

  Catherine pushed back his jacket with the back of her left hand and reached into the inside pocket, pulling out a wallet and a passport. She stuffed them into her pocket and stepped out of the car. She glanced about. No one. She unlocked her own car, got in, and drove away.

  Chapter 7

  FBI Director Winston Scofield circled Special Agent Blaine Lansing as the younger man felt his entire resume slipping off into the abyss of the unemployment office. The Director’s massive bulk moved like a leopard outflanking an opponent, his brown eyes surveying a kill—not a meal, a kill.

  “You let him get away?” Scofield growled for the dozenth time.

  “It’s not as though I let him do anything,” Lansing replied as he pressed the bag of ice harder against his skull. “It’s not like I wanted him to have my cash and my gun. I’m just surprised he didn’t take my credit cards, too.”

  “If you looked anything like him, you wouldn’t have your ID, either. We have several men down with second- and third-degree burns, and you’re lucky to be alive. Why are you so lucky?”

  “Sir, everyone’s lucky not to have been killed,” Blaine shot back. “He had an Uzi, we had standard H&K’s. Instead of pouring lead into those burn cases, he shot the gas tank. When he could’ve put me into the morgue, he gave me a concussion. He wasted plenty of time talking his way past the agents at the front of the garage instead of gunning them down. He’s got to be one of the most merciful homicidal killers I’ve heard of, because we never had a chance.”

  “Tell it to Secretary Stevens, agent. She’s in critical condition, and her chances aren’t good.”

  * * * *

  Wayne got out of the taxi at Dulles Airport, paying with Agent Lansing’s money. The wonderful thing about having someone else’s money was that it made one more generous. The taxi driver spoke in unintelligible English and smiled before he drove away.

  Wayne pushed through the glass doors of the vast international airport and headed for the Aer Lingus desk, carrying his suitcase in his left hand. The young lady in the green blazer looked stereotypically Irish: red hair, green eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles. Wayne truly believed their staff was handpicked because they looked the part.

  Wayne walked by the desk, glancing at the brochures. The lady at the desk kept an eye on him as she worked on her papers. He picked up a pamphlet and nodded.

  “May I help you, sir?” the young woman asked with a brogue.

  His attention snapped to her. He grinned. “No. No, I’m beyond help, thank you.” He raised the pamphlet. “I’ve got what I’m looking for, thanks.”

  The lady nodded, and he walked toward the nearest telephone booth. Wayne lifted the phone and dialed the number on the pamphlet.

  “Aer Lingus, how may I help you?” asked a woman who sounded like the one at the desk.

  “Yes, I was wondering if I could be on the first available flight to Shannon Airport?” Wayne asked, reading off of the pamphlet he could get a transfer to Belfast.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think you’d be able to get one without reservations a month in advance.”

  “Could you check? It would mean an awful lot to me.”

  “I’ll check, but no promises, mind you.”

  “Thank you.”

  * * * *

  Catherine Miller hit autodial on her cell phone, patching her through to Dulles Airport. She asked for Aer Lingus ticket registration and requested the first flight out.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m afraid getting a ticket this late is nearly—”

  “Could you please check? It’s extremely urgent. I’m not sure whether or not my father is going to make it even if I leave now, much less tomorrow—”

  “I’ll check, ma’am.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine said, exhaling.

  * * * *

  “I may have something for you,” the woman told Wayne. “It looks like someone’s honeymoon has been canceled. Two seats have opened up in coach on the nine PM flight to Dublin. You’d be arriving seven AM Ireland time. Would one of those seats be all right?”

  “It will. Thank you. Can you take my credit card number? The name is Blaine Lansing.”

  * * * *

  Catherine looked once again at the last entry in the passport of her attacker. It was stamped in Belfast on November 1st. He had left there only three days before the note had been sent to the White House. His wallet held receipts from the Doyle Hotel in Dublin. It was a reasonable idea. Even with all her training, the great STRONGBOW wouldn’t want to spend a night in Belfast.

  “Ma’am, are ya still there? I have a seat for you. It’s in coach—”

  “Coach? No problem. I’ll take it.” Catherine said.

  * * * *

  Wayne recited Agent Lansing’s credit card number digit by digit, purchasing his ticket to Ireland. All he needed now was time and a little luck. Clothes wouldn’t hurt either. He needed a new jacket after the shredding it had taken in the barrage. His shirt he didn’t mind; it was the one he had stolen from the security guard at the other end of the building. It must’ve been only—three? four?—hours ago.

  Wayne casually walked through Dulles. He had time on his side…not to mention the best training the US government had to offer, of course. He had been trained to blend in and disappear with minimal accessories. But he needed some accessories. Whi
ch meant he needed cash first—he couldn’t keep ordering over the phone. Using the Internet was the best way to get tracked, so that was out, too.

  Wayne casually scanned the signs of the airport’s “promenade.” Fast food. Snack and media store. McDonald’s. Burger King. Shoe store. Shoe store. Shoe store… How many shoes did one need to go on vacation? Dulles could’ve been a mini-mall for the forgetful (“OmiGod! I forgot my shoes / suit / suitcase / toothbrush / jacket/ head”). But, between a “Welcome to Washington” tourist shop and a Keds store, he found the Western Union (for those who say “OmiGod! I forgot my wallet!”)

  And—miraculously enough—an empty phone booth stood all by itself next to the money wiring service. He called in, and asked for five—no, make it ten—thousand dollars were to be wired to Wayne Williams at the Dulles Airport Western Union. His name? Blaine Lansing. He gave him his credit card number. Yes, an hour would be perfect. Thank you, and Have a Great Day.

  * * * *

  Williams walked into the nearest clothing store. It all looked as though it should have been in a high end outlet mall instead of an airport. The wood paneling wasn’t too obviously fake, and the racks of clothes impressed him. They had shirts, ties—ah, jackets.

  An advantage of Wayne’s body type was he was a perfect 42 regular. He preferred marvelously disposable suits, including the ones made of a polyester fabric; they wouldn’t wrinkle and were easily cleaned—both requirements, given the course of his life.

  He peered closely at the suits, automatically attracting the attention of half the salesmen in the store. The saleswoman was busy selling jewelry to a couple taking a spur-of-the-moment leap on the plane for Las Vegas, quick-marriage capital of the world.

  One salesman was more fleet of foot than the others, rushing to Wayne’s side immediately. He had played soccer in college. He never thought he would use his BA in Business Management to do this sort of work.

  “Good evening, sir, my name is Roberto. Is there anything I can help you with?” he asked Williams.

  Wayne pulled at a jacket sleeve, twisted it into a granny knot, then undid it and stared contemplatively at the relative lack of wrinkles while the blood drained from the salesman’s face. “Possibly.” He let go of the jacket and faced the salesman. “I’m looking for a size 42 regular jacket and shirt size 17. I’ll need one of each—no, make that two of each.”

  The salesman—Roberto—nodded. “Winter or spring weight jackets?”

  “One spring, one winter,” Wayne said. Russia’s winters were horrid in terms of cold, and Israel’s weren’t much better on the opposite end.

  “Very good, sir. Anything else?”

  Wayne smiled. “Yes. Where do you keep the sunglasses?”

  * * * *

  Catherine spotted a snack and media store at the corner of one of the airport’s “blocks.” One wall was lined with books and magazines, two in the front both had exits, the river of pedestrians flowing in and out.

  She mentally shrugged. It was a four-hour flight; she had to do something, and she had rested on her flight from Israel.

  Catherine Miller, CIA assassin, walked into the store through the front entrance, just as Wayne Williams—very rogue Secret Service agent—walked out the other entrance. After all, it was a four-hour flight, and Wayne didn’t know anyone on the plane. What else was there to do?

  * * * *

  Blaine Lansing walked out of the J. Edgar building, fuming. He didn’t know who to hate more: Wayne Williams or Winston Scofield. At least Williams had the decency to go for a full frontal attack, while Scofield had insinuated everything from pure incompetence to being on Williams’ side. If Blaine had to choose a partner to betray the country, it wouldn’t have been one who would damn near knock his head off.

  Anyway, it was time to go home. He had been suspended for losing his weapon while on the job.

  Besides, wouldn’t it be wonderful if Williams could be caught by a computer search?

  It was a plan, Blaine hadn’t wanted to discuss with Scofield. Agent Lansing had been taking work home with him at night. Since Blaine worked “NetForce,” taking his work home meant taking office software home, which was slightly illegal. Under different circumstances, Lansing’s supervisors would shrug and wave it away. But he suspected the Director would’ve welcomed an excuse to hang him. All because he had “let” Williams get away. What did Scofield have against this guy?

  The wonderful thing about the information superhighway was how many off-ramps there were. Special Agent Blaine Lansing scanned through the holographic images playing along the wrap-around visor.

  It was incredible. Wayne Williams had disappeared.

  Blaine had spent fifteen minutes trying to track his assailant. Blaine’s average speed was five. He had all the software of the FBI’s “NetForce” and he still couldn’t find out where Williams was. Southeast Washington was out of the question: even after all the integration, there was no street where he wouldn’t stick out like a light bulb. And unless Williams could pull off a miracle, there was no way he was going to get a hotel in Washington during a Shriner’s convention. And there were absolutely no charges on Wayne’s credit card.

  What had he missed?

  Chapter 8

  Wayne stood and glared at the guards of the metal detector behind shaded eyes. He stared between the two of them, and the shades were so dark his eyes were invisible. The sight somewhat unnerved them. They didn’t have many people coming through Dulles dressed like one of the Men in Black: none that ever put up an argument like this one had, though.

  “Officer,” he said in his flat Tommy Lee Jones voice. He vaguely nodded at one of them. “Come with me please.”

  The older guard—the one Wayne pulled aside—stood. He was in his late thirties, with his black hair in a marine crew cut. His dark, hard eyes scanned Wayne as he approached. The two orbs landed on Wayne’s coat.

  He saw the gun! I want to talk with this one.

  “Sir, can you please come over here a minute?” he asked the guard, waving him over with one finger as he slowly reached into his new jacket.

  The guard’s gun arm tensed. Former cop, perhaps? Army, possibly. His silver frames were round, with little glare. Wayne suspected they might have been window-glass; the secret service agent had many a time used that to look less conspicuous.

  “Officer,” Wayne said as he slowly pulled out his ID case, “I’m Special Agent Jon McCracken, FBI. I need to get on this flight with my firearm, which means going around this metal detector. Understood?”

  The guard glared at him for a moment before scanning the ID closely.

  Good solider, Williams thought, respect authority, but be damn careful before following orders.

  The guard nodded, and Wayne thanked God he had good friends in the fake ID department of the Witness Protection Program.

  “Can’t you just check it with your luggage?” the guard asked in a high monotone.

  Wayne shook his head as he pocketed the ID. “My luggage is all carry-on,” Wayne replied. “Besides, I don’t like a bright orange sticker saying to the baggage handlers ‘Here’s an FBI agent’s weapon to steal!’ Are we understood?”

  The guard smiled. He didn’t like the policy, either. After all, baggage handlers weren’t professionals; just people doing grunt work until something else came along. All types worked there: would-be musicians, artists and—even worse—writers. Who knew what they were capable of?

  * * * *

  Catherine made her way down the aisle, a bag in one hand and one over her shoulder. She stared at the ticket in her hand: 37 A. Window seat.

  She maneuvered her way through the aisle, trying not to kill herself—or anyone else—in the process. Catherine scanned the plastic strip above the seats, searching for hers.

  Got it. 37 A Window.

  Catherine looked down at the seat indicated.

  Someone was already in it.

  * * * *

  “Excuse me, sir?” said a voice to Wayne’s
right.

  Williams’ attention snapped toward the voice, turning in the window seat. He took off his sunglasses to get a better look at the stunningly beautiful woman who smiled at him. He could not help but smile back.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  She smiled a bit more. Her lipstick was a light pink, not adding much to the natural coloring. “I think you’re in my seat.”

  Wayne glanced at his ticket out of reflex. He knew he was in the wrong seat.

  He looked back to her. “Sorry, I guess you’re right. I had heard there was a couple who canceled, so I thought I’d have two seats to myself.”

  She laughed lightly. “It’s all right, I thought the same thing.”

  Wayne shrugged, as if wondering what he should do with himself. He stood, leaning forward as much as possible as he walked sideways out of the row. Catherine stepped out of his way, moving deeper into the aisle. She couldn’t believe it. The FBI still scoured all of DC looking for this man, and she had just run into him. Granted, the picture she had seen in his file was six years old, and the hair wasn’t exactly the same, but it was Williams. Who could forget those piercing eyes?

  Wayne stepped into the aisle, gesturing for her to go through. She lifted her traveling bag and cocked her head toward the overhead compartment, raising her eyebrows inquiringly.

  “Of course,” he replied, taking her bags and packing them next to his while she slid into the window seat.

  “Thank you,” she said as he sat down.

  “No problem. It’s a pleasure to help, Miss…?”

  “McLoughlin,” she replied, offering her hand. “Catherine McLoughlin,”

  He wondered if it was safe to use his real name. After all, he had gone through great lengths to avoid the FBI and anyone else looking for him. But, this was Scofield, and Wayne knew from very personal experience that the dishonorable Winston S. (is for shithead) Scoff-field would never let out anything which could in any way defame him—like an attack on, and in, the J. Edgar building.