The Liberty Covenant

by Jack Bowie

  He started in the kitchen, checking the drawers and cabinets. Inside the nooks, behind the canned vegetables and cereal boxes. After rifling the frozen food in the refrigerator, Slattery decided it was time to move on.

  Next came the two bathrooms. The medicine chests, often a prime source of insight, were unremarkable. It seemed Robinson kept himself going on aspirin and a full regimen of multivitamins. Even the toilet tanks came up empty.

  He wandered out into the hall to select his next target. Courington and Lasalle were still busy in the bedroom, and Ikedo and Flynn were keeping each other company in the study.

  As he stood there he heard a sound, like a motor, and was hit in the face with a blast of cool air. Looking over he saw the air vent. The edges of the metal cover were painted to the wall. Whoever last decorated the apartment hadn’t felt the need to remove the plates and covers and paint behind them. Pretty sloppy work for such an up-scale building.

  He now knew his next target.

  “What are you doing?” Lasalle asked when he noticed Slattery crawling along the floor.

  “Looking for cracks,” the CIA agent replied. “Well, well. You have a pocket knife, Tony?”

  Chapter 61

  Cerberus Consulting, Tysons Corner, Virginia

  Friday, 3:00 p.m.

  Braxton had done all he could until Luckett got back to him. He had shuffled papers ever since the meeting, biding time until it was late enough to go home and fix some dinner. One concern kept gnawing at him, however. It had only been a day since they talked, but he had to know for sure.

  “Hello?” The voice on the other end of the line was weak and raspy. It was what he had feared.

  “Susan?”

  “Oh. Adam. It’s so good to hear from you. Are you alright?” Her voice picked up a bit.

  “I’m fine. But how are you? Your office said you were out.”

  “More like down and out since Wednesday night. This damn flu just keeps getting worse. I’ve spent the last two days in bed with aspirin and chicken soup. Now I can barely keep anything down.” She coughed and it echoed down the phone line. “I’m sorry, Adam. I didn’t mean to complain. What did you want?”

  “Ah, nothing really. I just wanted to check on you.”

  “Well you must be psychic. Is this a new skill you’ve picked up?”

  He laughed. It felt good.

  “Just bad timing probably. Can I do anything for you?”

  “No. Thank you. But how about you take me out to a big fancy dinner when I get better? Anything but chicken.”

  “It’s a deal. Have you seen a doctor?”

  “I dragged into my HMO yesterday. They said it was a virus and there was nothing they could do.”

  Unfortunately that was closer to the truth than they knew.

  “Okay, but if you get worse or need anything give me a call.”

  “Yes, doctor. I’ll take my medicine and call you in the morning.” She was trying, but her voice was strained. The initial burst of energy had drained away.

  “Take care of yourself, Susan,” he said softly.

  “You too, Adam. Bye.”

  It was fifteen minutes before he had gathered the strength to go home.

  * * *

  Slattery spread the sheets of paper across the glass top of Robinson’s coffee table as Flynn and Ikedo joined him on the plush leather sofa. Behind the vent cover he had found a piece of string tied to a protruding nail. When he’d pulled up on the string, a large envelope had been dangling invisibly in the airshaft. And inside the envelope had been these very illuminating documents.

  “It’s every goddamn communication between Gary and the Commander,” Flynn exclaimed.

  “Here’s the last one I saw,” Slattery pointed to a sheet about a third of the way across the table.

  “There’s nothing all that specific,” Ikedo said. “Everything’s in code words and innuendo.”

  “But there’s enough to draw some pretty reasonable conclusions,” Flynn replied harshly. “We could have known CHARLIE was about to happen. We could have guessed about HALFTIME!” She slapped her hands on the table. “What the hell did Garrett think he was doing?”

  “What did you hear on that phone call, Mary Ellen?” Slattery asked.

  “What phone call?” Flynn snapped.

  “The one you tapped.”

  “Oh. That one. We heard Gary was after Braxton. That’s why we were tailing him. We knew he was out of town and had agents waiting for him at Reagan National. They followed him to his office. When they went upstairs they found him unconscious. I called you as soon as I heard.”

  “You probably saved his life. Who else was on the phone?”

  “We don’t know. The call came from a burner cell in Alexandria. Garrett wanted to warn Braxton, but the other guy talked him out of it. He’s a real smooth operator.”

  “Can we hear the tape?” Ikedo asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe we can recognize the voice,” Slattery added.

  “Worth a try I guess. The lab boys are doing a voiceprint, but without any suspects we don’t have anyone to match it to. We’ll have to get it out of Garrett.”

  “Director Flynn?” The voice came from the hallway.

  “Yes?”

  One of the FBI agents appeared in the entryway. “We’ve got Garrett Robinson downstairs. He’s pretty pissed. Screaming about NSA privilege. National security.”

  “Tell him he can stuff his privilege up his ass. Arrest him and take him to headquarters. Full handcuffs. Let him stew for a while. If I see him now I’ll strangle him myself.”

  * * *

  Luckett had spent the afternoon calling in favors and collecting a substantial dossier on Paul Venton and Vision One. Now, stretched out on the sofa in his Arlington condo, he could take a new look at the target of Braxton’s investigation. It was very enlightening.

  In the middle of reviewing some recent loan applications, he heard a knock on his door.

  Who could that be?

  He stuffed the file under a sofa cushion and went to check out the interruption.

  “Yes?” he called.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Luckett,” said a deep voice with a slight southern twang. “I'm Special Agent Davis from the FBI. I'd like to speak with you a minute.”

  The FBI? What could they want? “What’s this about, Agent Davis?”

  “Ah, I’d rather not discuss it through the door, sir. I’m following up on some of your recent stories. About Georgia.”

  Well, they finally decided they’d talk to someone with some real information. It was about time.

  Luckett released two deadbolts and pulled the door back against the security chain.

  “Could I see some ID, please?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Luckett.”

  Davis held up an FBI identification card and Luckett unhooked the chain.

  “Come on in, Agent.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The Agent walked into the entranceway and stood at a casual attention. He was medium height, probably mid-thirties, with soft, unremarkable features. His attire included gray slacks, blue sport coat, and a pair of gold-rim dark glasses. Missing was the haughty arrogance Luckett had experienced all too often with Fibbies.

  “Would you like to sit down?” the reporter asked.

  “No, thank you. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

  “So, how can I help you?”

  “First of all, Mr. Luckett, let me say how impressed the Bureau has been with your articles on the militia. You can appreciate that we can’t publicly comment on the material, but it is required reading for the team.”

  “What team is that?”

  “The Militia Crisis Team, sir. We’re in charge of the investigation of the militia attacks.”

  “I thought those were all over.”

  “We certainly hope the attacks are over. But not our investigation. Right now we’re looking into some inconsistencies from certain sources. Have
you ever spoken with Mr. Adam Braxton?”

  Braxton? Why would they be asking him about the consultant? How much did they know about the trip to Yale?

  “I believe I have met him, why?”

  “Off the record, Mr. Luckett? This is sensitive information.”

  “Okay, Agent Davis. Off the record.” For now.

  “We have reason to believe that Mr. Braxton may be withholding information on the militia attacks.”

  “Withholding information! I find that very hard to believe. He has always been, well, quite helpful.”

  “Yes, sir.” Davis nodded as if he had heard all this before. “But we believe he is now under a lot of pressure from some of his clients, the Department of Defense in particular, to hide certain information which could assist us.”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Honestly, sir, we know you have met with Mr. Braxton a number of times recently. Most recently lunchtime today. We also know you were a close friend of George Brown, and assume you want to see his killers brought to justice. If Mr. Braxton has said anything to you about the attacks, it could very well be the clue we need.”

  “No. I can’t believe Adam would hide anything from the FBI.”

  “You are aware of his precarious financial condition? If he should lose a few clients, he could be bankrupt. This is a powerful motivator, Mr. Luckett.”

  Braxton had said they were pressuring him, but bankrupt? Luckett never knew it was this bad. Still, would he have hidden anything? After what happened at the White House?

  “I’m sorry, Agent Davis. But I still don’t believe Adam could withhold information. He told you about Vision One didn’t he?”

  “Vision One?”

  “Yes. The company his ex-wife worked for.” Don’t these incompetents know anything?

  “Oh, Vision One. Yes, I’m sorry. He did mention them, but he never gave us any details. Does he have any evidence of their involvement?”

  “You know he does! He was in their laboratory in Amsterdam. We know about the Chlamydia bacteria What more do you need?” Why was Davis playing him along like this?

  “What exactly has Braxton told you about C. Pneumoniae, Mr. Luckett?”

  Davis was making him very uncomfortable. Why was he asking things he should know?

  “Excuse me, Agent Davis. I’ve told you all I know about Adam Braxton. If I were you, I’d quit persecuting the victims and start trying to find these murderers. A lot of us would like to see some justice coming out of the FBI for a change. So if you don’t mind . . .” Luckett turned and went to the door.

  “But I do mind, Luckett,” the man snarled, taking off his glasses. “Sun Tzu said ‘Humanity and justice are the principles on which to govern a state, but not an army; opportunism and flexibility, on the other hand, are military rather than civic virtues.’ And right now, I’m about to take advantage of an opportunity.”

  * * *

  Slattery stood in front of the one-way mirror as Flynn walked slowly into the interrogation room. Since they had returned from Robinson’s she had cleaned up in the ladies’ room, read Robinson’s file—faxed from the NSA—twice, yelled at two of her assistants, and returned to the ladies’ room. Now every hair was in place and every seam in line. She had made herself as ready as she could.

  He had sent Ikedo back to Langley to pull some files. This was going to get rough. If what Slattery thought was true, she should never be in that room with him. It was like a surgeon operating on her lover. Emotions had a funny way of affecting a professional’s skills. He hoped she was up to it.

  Robinson sat motionless behind the metal table. He stared straight ahead, into the mirror, ignoring the entrance of his inquisitor.

  Flynn sat down facing Robinson. “We found the file, Garrett.”

  He looked through her.

  “It’s just us. You and me. Why, Garrett? Why?”

  Still no response.

  “People were killed!” She stood and her voice raised with her stature. “What were you doing, goddamn it?”

  Shit! She was losing it. He grabbed onto the frame of the window. But he couldn’t go in. It was her case.

  “Two agents died from your actions. Or your inactions. Why?”

  Silence.

  “They had wives and children. What did they ever do to you?”

  Silence.

  “How many other people have you screwed on this one?” She was screaming now. “Talk to me, you goddamn bastard.”

  He turned to return her gaze. “It was necessary,” he said calmly. “For the greater good.”

  She sat back down. “Who was on the phone, Garrett?” Now softly. Like one lover to another.

  “Sorry, Mary Ellen. I can’t. It’s complicated.”

  “It’s your only chance, Garrett. This is treason.” She was pleading with him. For the FBI, or for herself?

  Slattery choked the window frame as he waited for the answer.

  Finally, Robinson stared back into the mirror. “I’d like to call my lawyer, please,” he said.

  * * *

  Gary rolled off the edge of the queen-sized bed and shuffled into the study. Tonight he would treat himself to a real home, with a real bed. Hopefully for a real night’s rest. Too bad he couldn’t say the same for the condo’s owner.

  He pecked out the message, and hit “Send.”

  Consultant narrowing focus to your location.

  Will expedite sanction.

  The pain had been gnawing inside him all day. Eating away. The attacks were more frequent now; three or four times a week. But there was still work to do. Loose ends to be removed and cauterized, unfinished business to be tended to. His revenge would be satisfying, and absolute.

  Gary staggered back to the bed, glancing only briefly into the blood-soaked living room, and collapsed into a drug-assisted coma.

  Chapter 62

  Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia

  Saturday, 8:00 a.m.

  Slattery had awakened at 6:00, replaying the interrogation in his head, hoping for some new realization of the identity of the Commander. Beth had finally given him a gentle nudge; their private code that said it was okay for him to get up and go to work. She could read the news reports as well as anyone and, being married to a spy for too many years to count, could tell what wasn’t being said. She had squeezed his hand, turned over and gone back to sleep.

  He had arrived at 7:00 and begun reviewing the overnight updates.

  “Roger?”

  Slattery looked up from the latest FBI incident report and saw Ikedo standing in the doorway. “What’s up, Manny?” he asked.

  “Mary Ellen sent the Robinson wiretap recording over last night. I just sent it to you. Thought you might want to check it out.”

  “Mary Ellen, huh? And she sent it to you. I told you to look out for that lady.”

  A flush appeared on Ikedo’s cheeks. “Come on, Roger. Give me a break.”

  No snappy retort from his usually razor-sharp colleague? He might have hit a raw nerve. Unfortunately.

  “Come on in,” Slattery replied. “Call it up. We’ll listen together.”

  Ikedo moved behind Slattery’s desk and opened the Intelink file.

  “Hello?” It was a vague, sleepy voice.

  “What are you doing calling me again?” A deeper voice. Strong and accusatory.

  “You’re getting back to me now? It’s 1:00 a.m.!” The first voice again. Now recognizable as Robinson.

  “Keeping the country safe is not a nine to five job, Garrett. Now why did you call?”

  “Did you see the latest decryption?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what should we do?” Robinson.

  “Didn’t we already have this discussion? We don’t do a goddamn thing.”

  “But it’s that consultant. Braxton. They’re after him. We should warn him.”

  “Warn him! Hasn’t he done enough damage already? Look, Garrett, if this information helped us with the attacks, of
course we’d release it. But it doesn’t. And the cost would be so high. We must keep the algorithm a secret a little longer.” The other voice softened. Became manipulative.

  “I’m tired, sir. Very tired.”

  “I know, Garrett. We both know what a burden this knowledge can be. But your country is counting on you. Let’s see what happens. We’ll talk later this week.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now get back to sleep, son.”

  They both stared at the monitor in silence. Slattery grabbed the mouse, clicked on the rewind icon, then hit “Play” again.

  They listened to the conversation twice more. Slattery wrinkled his forehead until his eyes hurt. There was something familiar about the words and the phrasing.

  “What’s the matter, Roger?”

  “Oh, nothing. Thought I recognized something. What do you think?”

  “Interesting conversation,” Ikedo began in his best analyst voice. “From what I’ve heard about Robinson, he’s a real hot shot. And an arrogant bastard. But here he was . . . well, deferential. All the ‘sir’ stuff.”

  “Yeah. It sure didn’t sound like the Robinson I talked to. And the other guy really knew how to play him.”

  “What do we know about Robinson’s background?” Ikedo asked.

  “Background? Not much. Well-educated obviously. Been in the NSA about . . .”

  Ikedo waved his hand at his boss. “No. Before that. It sounded like Robinson was talking to a superior. Was he in the military?”

  Slattery cocked his head. “I don’t know. But we’re damn well going to find out. What’s Mary Ellen’s number?”

  “555-1703,” came the rapid reply.

  Her private line. Slattery’s smile belied the concerns his ploy had raised.

  He reached for the phone and punched a number. “Mary Ellen? Roger Slattery. I want the full jacket on Robinson, especially any military background. We may have a lead on your accomplice.”

  * * *

  Braxton had decided he would get some well-needed rest by taking Saturday off. He was stretched out on the sofa in his apartment and re-runs of NCIS were on the TV. He tried to convince himself the open laptop sitting on the coffee table didn’t really count as work.