When he exited the security area, she did not offer her hand or a smile. She gave a sideways nod and walked toward the exit without even a glance to ensure that he followed. Evarts took comfort in that she exhibited not the slightest skill in spy craft. She acted like an enlistee doing duty she found disagreeable.
She led him to a small Korean hatchback. Evarts threw his carry-on into the back which was littered with toddler toys. He brushed crumbs off the front seat before sitting. As he fastened his seatbelt, he noticed she carried a sidearm under her over-sized sweat jacket.
“Personal car?” He asked knowing the answer.
“Orders. I guess they don’t want a grand announcement of your arrival. I’m Sergeant First Class Wilson. You’re Greg Evarts, Chief of Police, Santa Barbara. Since you’re not military, you may call me Diane.”
“Thank you for picking me up, Diane. Where are you taking me?”
“To the Watergate. You’re to check in straightaway, then meet your host in the downstairs bar. I’ve been instructed to tell you not to dally.”
“Who is my host?”
“I was told you would know.”
“I do. I was wondering if you knew.”
“I don’t have a need to know. I’ll drop you off at the entrance and then I get to go home to my family. When we arrive at the hotel, hop out quickly or my husband might get a notion to cook dinner and that’ll be on you.”
“I’ll be quick as a bunny.”
“Good.”
She said nothing more. She had been around supposed hotshots before and felt neither the need nor the inclination to butter up self-important strangers. That told Evarts that she had a serious job in the Pentagon and had been recruited on the fly for this menial task.
“Diane, are you always armed when you pick up people at the airport?”
After a sideways glance, she said, “I’m military police.”
“Unusual duty for an MP sergeant first class.”
“Someone thought you needed special handling.”
Special handling? The coddling variety or the protective variety? He was not a big wig, so it was likely the second category. Also, Sergeant Wilson was dressed casually and used her personal vehicle. Not standard operating procedure for ego-stroking red-carpet treatment. Evarts thought. The exact purpose of his visit could not be mentioned on an open line, but it had something to do with terrorism. Was he a target?
Evarts asked, “Were you warned that I might be in danger?”
Another glance. “I was told to remain alert.”
“What unit are you assigned to?”
“Financial forensics. My unit investigates terrorist funding and expenditures.”
Evarts did not miss the emphasis on the word my. Commissioned officers may hand down orders, but the sergeants ran the show.
Evarts asked, “Do you have a secure communication device?”
She nodded.
“May I borrow it?” Evarts asked.
“No.”
“I need to call the person I’m meeting in the Watergate bar.”
“No.”
“Our prior communication was vague because my side wasn’t secure. After an update, I suspect he’ll want to invite someone else to our meeting.”
“No.”
“He carries a lot of weight on his shoulders.”
“He’ll be in civvies.”
“You can’t shed that kind of weight by changing out of uniform.”
“Ah hell, you’re meeting General O’Brian.”
“How’d you figure that out?”
“Been thinking on it. Not many can jerk my boss around, and fewer would have a clandestine agenda. General O’Brian fits the bill.”
“Can I call Jim?”
“Yes.” She handed over a cell phone. “Clever of you to use his first name.”
Evarts punched his number from memory. When O’Brian answered with a curt hello, he said, “Hi, Jim. We’re on the way to the hotel.” He looked out the window. “Probably see you in about twenty minutes.”
“Then you’ll be ten minutes late,” O’Brian said.
“Traffic. I’ll have a double Macallan’s on the rocks. Appreciate it if you could have it ready for me when I arrive. Thanks.”
He terminated the call and handed the phone back.
Sergeant Wilson whistled. “Wow, I’m not the only one who’s been summarily ordered to perform disagreeable duty.”
“What makes you say that?” Evarts asked.
“Why else would you rattle the cage of a lieutenant general.”
Evarts laughed. “Right you are. Why else?”
“What rank?” she asked.
“What rank what?”
“What rank when you retired?”
“Guess.”
“Major.”
“Bingo. How’d you know?”
“Officers who retire as majors are disillusioned. Once safely beyond the reach of superior officers, they love to tweak their noses.”
“A swing and a miss. I got along fine with the brass. I just missed surfing and the ocean, so I quit to return home.”
“And joined the local police force?”
Evarts shrugged. “Paid better than the army and, in the beginning, I could surf all day because I worked nights.”
“You’re young for a chief. Connections?”
“Nary a one. I attribute my rapid rise to my Army experience.”
“Good to know. I might leave one day.”
“Give me a call when you do. You’re intuitive as hell and disciplined. A good combination for detective work.”
He laid a business card in a recess on her dash.
“Thanks. We’re here. Say hello to General O’Brian for me.”
Evarts grabbed his carryon and jumped out. Leaning back into the car, he asked, “You know General O’Brian?”
“You might say that. He’s my father-in-law.”
Chapter 10
Evarts slid into a seat along the wall of The Next Whiskey Bar.
“Hi, Jim.”
“Damn you, Greg. What the hell was that call about?”
Evarts made a point of surveying the small cocktail table. “Evidently not a thing. I don’t see my drink.”
“You didn’t call from a secure device to order a drink. Explain.”
Evarts gave O’Brian a direct look. “I wanted to make sure it was you I was meeting. Your clandestine shenanigans made me nervous.”
“I’ll talk with your driver,” O’Brian said. “She shouldn’t have let you use her phone.”
“That reminds me, she said hello.”
O’Brian merely nodded.
Evarts signaled for a hostess and ordered his drink.
After she left, he asked, “Jim, what’s this about?”
“For the moment, an informal debrief. Tell me about the attack and your interaction with the police.”
“Here?”
“Don’t shout, but yeah, here.”
Evart was able to give him a terse rundown before his drink arrived. O’Brian had asked no questions during his monologue, but as soon as the server departed, he asked several clarifying questions. Evarts gave clear, concise answers. When O’Brian ran out of questions, they sipped their respective drinks.
“Why did we do this off-premises?” Evarts asked.
For a moment, it appeared that O’Brian would ignore the question, but finally he said, “I’m not sure who to trust at the Pentagon.”
“Get better people,” Evarts responded.
“They are good people. The situation is complicated.”
Evarts thought about that. Islamic terrorism had remained a challenge for decades. A difficult situation … not complicated. Unless, of course, you made it purposely complicated with political correctness. But O’Brian did not engage in political correctness nor was he cowed by it. He was far too linear. What could make it complicated?
Evarts leaned across the small cocktail table. “That French reference to Templar
s and Masons, is there any substance to it?”
“I can’t say.”
“You can’t say because you don’t know, or you can’t say because it’s classified?”
“Classified.”
“Thank you for answering my question.”
Nothing about the exchange had been accidental. O’Brian knew how to convey information without violating protocol. But what did it mean? There was a vigilante group out there. But why was its existence classified. To avoid an ugly religious war? Could be. Governments officially downplayed the Islamic connection to terrorism. But if the Islamic terrorists had deadly foes, why would the government refuse to acknowledge their existence? Same reason? Probably. Most likely, it was further government attempts to tamp down a religious war. The government might also be protecting sources. Or … maybe it was more silly political correctness. Silly because it would be hard to referee a war when you pretend neither set of combatants exists. Then he had a thought. If there was substance behind the French insinuation of a connection between the Masons and Templars, then that would provide a huge stumbling block for the French and Americans. Masons permeated both security forces.
“Jim, you know I’m only a casual member of the Masons, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a Mason?”
“Yes.”
“Casual … or otherwise?”
“Otherwise.”
“Are you a Templar?”
“I thought I was interrogating you.”
“That ended when the debrief was complete. Will you answer my question?”
“No.”
“No, you won’t answer or no, you’re not a Templar.”
“You figure it out.”
Evarts and O’Brian had actually known each other for less than a year, but their teaming up to alleviate flooding during a recent hundred-year storm had built a great deal of trust between the men. Despite this bond, O’Brian acted as if he had already divulged enough information. He would not further violate protocol. So be it. Evarts didn’t need to know. Evarts didn’t want to know.
“Time for dinner?” Evarts asked.
“Unfortunately, I have an engagement,” O’Brian said. “Next time.”
“Hopefully, there won’t be a next time. At least not a command performance next time. Am I free to return home?”
“You are.”
Evarts pulled out his phone. After a brief check, he booked a red eye to LAX that departed in just over two hours.
Finished with the transaction, Evarts said, “I fly out at eleven-twenty. You can release the room, but don’t bother your daughter-in-law further. I’ll get a car service to take me to the airport.”
O’Brian smiled. “Don’t go away mad.”
“Why should I be mad? I love flying back and forth across the country.”
“I know this was inconvenient, but I needed to hear your story face to face.”
“So you could judge my veracity.”
“Of course.”
“Your conclusion?”
“I believe your version of events. Your actions on Pont Neuf no longer interest us.”
“Really? You know, it might have been nice if someone said thanks. I did keep the attack from being even more gruesome.”
O’Brian stood. “You’re a policeman. You should be used to people not saying thank you.”
To Evarts’ surprise, O’Brian strolled out of the posh bar. O’Brian had always been taciturn, but the two of them had been friends. Now, it seemed like he wanted distance between them.
What the hell was going on?
Chapter 11
Evarts threw his overnight bag onto an empty bed. Where was Trish? He hadn’t run into her downstairs. Had she left the house? As he walked toward the master bath, he heard the shower. He turned around and went downstairs to make coffee. He was dead tired and would need caffeine to explain his trip. She’d want a full explanation. He wished he had one.
Trish wandered into the kitchen before the coffee finished brewing. Using a towel to dry her short hair, she asked, “You didn’t stay in D.C.?”
“No, just back. Hour meeting in a hotel bar and caught a red eye. Hope you got a good night’s sleep.” He started pouring coffee. Over his shoulder, he added, “I sure didn’t.”
“Fitful. Still on Paris time, I guess. Woke up a few times wide awake. I assumed you were holed up in a hotel room, so I didn’t want to wake you. What the hell happened?”
He handed her a steaming mug. “Beats me. They wanted a debrief on our European adventure. When they were satisfied, they told me I could go home.” He raised both arms in a hopeless gesture. “So here I am.”
“Who’s they?”
“One man. You know him.”
“Jim O’Brian? Why is Army Intelligence interested in Paris? Is there a military angle?”
“Not that I’m aware of, but I bet the White House is highly interested. That means the CIA is on this. My bet is that someone assigned Jim to debrief me because of our past association. They already had the French file, so all they wanted was a personal assessment of its completeness and accuracy.”
“Well, I guess that makes sense.” She took a sip of coffee. “Is this the end of it then?”
“I’m going to act as if it is.” He took a large gulp. “Listen, I going to take a nap and get into work about noon. Wake me around eleven, okay.”
“Set your phone. I’ve been called into school.”
“For what? You’re on vacation.”
“They said the story is big news and the school’s name came up. The French kept our names secret, but they made reference to a professor at UCSB. The school wants to discuss how to handle press inquiries.”
Evarts drank his coffee and thought. That didn’t make sense. The French would never disclose details or names during an ongoing investigation of a terrorist attack. And they certainly wouldn’t drop clues that would make it easy to identify a victim—or a hero, as was the case with Trish. Trish? Untrained, she would have difficulty thwarting interrogation tactics.
“I’m going too.”
“Why? This is PR stuff.”
“When I’m sure that’s all it is, I’ll come back home, but this is not PR rocket science. All they need to say is that they will not disclose a name, their colleague was unharmed, and to their knowledge that individual knows nothing about the incident beyond being frightened. Not wanting to relive the incident, this person is refusing all interviews. Thank you. We will not be taking questions.” He snapped his mug down a little too hard and splashed coffee onto the countertop. “An attack on foreign ground will fade away in a couple days. How simple could it be?”
“Greg, I can handle it. Take a shower and a nap. I’ll probably be back before you leave for work.”
“I’m going. I want to see who’s in the room.”
“What do … oh … you think this is an interrogation … by some goddamn spooks?”
Evarts took a dishrag and wiped up his coffee splash. He took a long time responding. Finally, he said, “I was ordered to Washington. Told the FBI would transport me if I didn’t agree to come willingly. They reserved a nice room for me, expecting me to spend the night. But I flew home instead. Now I hear some UCSB administrators want to talk to you. Nothing’s certain, but it sure seems like they purposely separated the witnesses to compare answers.” He threw the rag in the sink. “I could be wrong. If I am, I’ll be home and in the shower, inside of an hour.”
“And if you’re right?”
“Good question.” He thought. “At minimum, I’ll know more. Beyond that, I’m not sure.” He smiled. “But I won’t jeopardize your academic position by being an ass. At least not in the room.”
“Then what damn good are you?”
She was not smiling.
“Excuse me. Are you saying you want me to challenge these jerks if they’re really doing a clandestine interrogation?”
She swallowed the last of her coffee and slid the mug on
to the counter. “I’m going upstairs to dress. I’ll be leaving within fifteen minutes. Be ready. And if you spot any spooks, give them a piece of my mind.”
Evarts smiled broadly. “Will do.”
“Academics expect cops to be rude. That won’t be a problem. I know how to apologize for my knuckle-dragging husband.”
She whirled around and marched out of the kitchen.
As she climbed the stairs, she yelled back, “But don’t punch anyone.”
Chapter 12
Evarts counted three people sitting at one end of a long conference table. He knew Samantha Tiller, the chair of Trish’s department. The young woman with a steno pad was probably Tiller’s assistant. The other was a mystery. Evarts internally dubbed him Mr. Horn Rim Glasses. Big, heavy, black glasses. And a blindingly white starched shirt with links to close the cuffs. Cuff links? Starch? Evarts didn’t know laundry services still offered starch. Mr. Horn Rim Glasses wore no suitcoat but sported a preppie school tie. Whoever he was, his dress was not common in academia. At least not on the West Coast.
Before they sat, Tiller said, “I’m sorry Greg, this is a confidential meeting. Would you mind waiting outside?”
“I would.” Evarts took a seat at the table.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me correctly. This is not a public meeting.”
Baldwin noisily scraped a chair away from the table but remained standing. “Greg and I were both on Pont Neuf during the attack and he has extensive experience in public relations. I want him here … for support … and to help me to accurately remember a highly stressful event.”
“This is not about the attack,” Tiller said. “We’re here to figure out how the university handles the aftermath.”
“What aftermath?” Baldwin asked.
“We’ve received over a hundred emails and phone calls from the media asking for an interview. They want your name.” She shook her head. “I don’t have the time or staff for this.”
Out of the blue, Baldwin asked, “Are you going to make introductions?”
“We haven’t settled on whether your husband remains.” She turned toward Evarts. “I’m sorry, Greg, but we need to deal with some sensitive subjects. If you would just—”
The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3) Page 4
