by Jack Bowie
The phone rang and he leapt for the handset.
“Adam Braxton.”
“Adam, it’s Taylor Luckett.
“Hi, Taylor. I was hoping you’d call. Did you find anything?”
“Adam. I need to see you.” The reporter’s voice was weak and strained.
“What’s the matter? Are you okay?”
“Yes. I . . . I found something. Meet me tonight. At the memorial. Ten o’clock. Like before.”
“Taylor? Why? What have you found?”
He hung up.
Maybe Luckett had found something! They would get to the bottom of this nightmare.
But it was a very odd call.
* * *
“Here’s the file, Roger. I pulled it off Intelink and made a couple printouts.” Ikedo dropped a folder on the senior agent’s desk. “Robinson enlisted in the Marines after he graduated from Penn State. Went to intel training after Parris Island. Initially assigned to DIA by the Pentagon, then to NSA. Stayed on after his tour.”
Slattery thumbed through the sheets in the file. “We need the names, Manny. Who did he serve under?”
“Thought you might want that. Mary Ellen has a few friends at the Pentagon.” Ikedo pulled another sheet from the folder he was holding and slid it over to his boss. “I ran it against DoD’s active file. Nothing clicked.”
Slattery ran his finger down the list. Two-thirds of the way down it skidded to a stop.
“Shit!” he exclaimed.
“You found something?”
“Sometimes computers just can’t do the work for you, Manny.”
Slattery reached for the phone. “What was Mary Ellen’s number again?”
* * *
After calling Flynn, Slattery had known the next steps were up to others far above his pay grade. He had left Ikedo to continue researching Robinson, and had returned home, attempting to make up to Beth for his absence by rushing around the house doing menial chores like mowing the grass.
As expected, Markovsky had called at 4:15 and told him to get ready for another meeting at the White House. A CIA staff car had arrived ten minutes later and driven him into the city.
He dreaded these visits. All they had ever brought was trouble. Interacting with the politicians was one reason he had never sought management positions at the Agency. That and his penchant for blunt truth-saying.
Unlike his usual brusque military reception, however, he was met by a friendly female Secret Service agent who escorted Slattery up the stairs to the second floor of the White House. This was the First Family’s private residence. Only close friends and the ever-present Secret Service frequented these halls. What had he done now?
The agent opened a door. Slattery walked through and immediately stopped short, shocked by the bizarre scene before him. It was the Lincoln Bedroom, but decorated as he never could have imagined. The President lay motionless in a huge bed, clear plastic drapes separating him from the two individuals standing alongside. Mary Ellen Flynn stood silently to Slattery’s left, looking ashen in shock, while Peter Markovsky was positioned on his right, near the President’s plastic tomb. To Slattery it looked like nothing short of a wake.
He was shaken out of his introspection by a metallic electronic voice. It took a few seconds before he realized it was the voice of the man behind the curtain.
“Mr. Slattery,” said the voice. “Thank you very much for coming. My apologies for the rather depressing atmosphere.”
“Roger, Mary Ellen,” said Markovsky, “the President wanted to meet with you in person. As I was saying, Mr. President, it was Agents Flynn and Slattery who discovered the connection.”
“I wish I could say congratulations,” Matthews added, “but somehow I just don’t feel that is appropriate. We do all appreciate your work, and the difficulties under which it was performed.”
Slattery looked at Flynn and realized that for the first time since he had known her she was speechless.
“I’m sure I speak for Mary Ellen, Mr. President,” Slattery responded, “when I say we would much prefer that the outcome had been quite different.”
“Thank you, Mr. Slattery,” replied Matthews. “So do we all.”
There was a knock on the door and all eyes turned to see the identity of the next visitor.
“Peter?” said a surprised DNI as he walked into the room. Carlson quickly scanned the others in the room, then walked abruptly past them to the President’s bed.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, Steven.” Matthews replied. He pushed a plain manila folder through an overlap in the drapes. “I was wondering what you thought of this?”
Carlson took the packet and glanced through the contents.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “Are these really other messages on the militia conspiracy? Where did you get them?”
“We have discovered that Garrett Robinson had the deciphering capability all along,” Matthews explained. “He’s under arrest at FBI headquarters.”
“Robinson? From the NSA? Why would he do such a thing?”
“We’re not sure, but we think under some misguided sense of loyalty to another conspirator. Someone who wanted this information kept secret. Someone I would call a traitor. You’ve never seen any of these before, Steven?”
“Certainly not, Mr. President.” Carlson stretched himself to full military attention.
“Perhaps you’d better look at the last message.”
Carlson’s countenance cracked slightly. He reopened the folder and pulled out the bottom sheet of paper.
Slattery watched with a mixture of hatred and satisfaction as the color slowly drained from the DNI’s face.
“This seems to be a conversation, Mr. President. Where did you get it?”
“It’s a transcription of a telephone conversation, Steven. The FBI tapped Robinson’s phone when we discovered he was withholding IMAGER intelligence. Don’t you want to know where we found the other documents?”
“I assumed you had gotten them from him.”
“Not quite. We got them from his co-conspirator.”
“Oh. So you know who he is?”
“Yes.” The pain was obvious in Matthews’ face, but Slattery understood his need to confront Carlson his own way. “We searched your home this morning, Steven. We found them there.”
“My house! You can’t . . .” He looked to Markovsky, then over to Slattery and Flynn. “Mr. President. No. There must be some mistake.” Carlson stepped closer to the tent enclosing the President.
“There is no mistake. We did a voiceprint on the tap. The search of your home simply confirmed it.” Matthews paused. Slattery wondered if the President had the strength to continue “Why, Steven? How could you do this to us? To me?”
The ex-Marine reached out with shaking hands. “I . . . I didn’t do this. I couldn’t, sir. Joseph, you’ve got to believe me.”
Carlson nudged even closer to the bed, leaning as if to better convince his Commander in Chief.
A hand suddenly shot through the plastic curtain, grabbed Carlson’s coat collar, and yanked him into the tent. Slattery jumped forward in defense, but Flynn pulled him back. She gave him a quick look of assurance.
“You missed the earlier party,” Matthews hissed, “so I want to introduce you to our little visitor, C. Pneumoniae.”
Carlson struggled to pull back from the sickly man, but Mathews’ grip held him firmly in place. The President’s voice was hoarse, but Slattery felt the same strength that had taken the man to the most powerful post in the world.
“What I believe Steven, is that your actions disgraced this administration and our country. I will never allow you to again represent a single American citizen, much less be a part of this administration. Whether or not this damn bug has its way.
“If I could, I’d hang you from this bedpost right now. But others are more temperate. You are going to resign from government service tonight, forever. If you do not, I will have you brought up for tre
ason. You’ll never see another day of freedom.”
Matthews released his grip and Carlson recoiled back into the room. As he neared them, Slattery and Flynn unconsciously leaned back, distancing themselves from the invisible curse hanging over the soldier.
“I did it for you, sir,” Carlson suddenly pleaded. His voice was halting and weak. He was no longer “Killer” Carlson. “The polls. I had to protect you. To ensure your re-election. I . . . I didn’t know about the virus.”
Matthews stared blankly at the man who used to be his closest friend. “And I no longer know about you, Steven. Get out of my sight.”
Carlson managed to pull himself erect. “I’ll prepare the document, now, Mr. President,” Carlson said. Eyes straight ahead, he marched slowly past Markovsky, Flynn, and Slattery, then through the door into the hall, closely followed by two Secret Service agents. An eerie silence hung heavy in the room.
“These events are not to leave this room,” Matthews finally stated. “I will not put the country through it. You will see that the conditions are carried out, Mary Ellen.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“What about Kam Yang and the attack on Mary Ellen?” Slattery asked. “Do we just forget about them?”
“There’s no evidence the General had any part in either incident, Roger,” Markovsky replied calmly. “Unless Robinson opens up, which I doubt he will even if he knows anything, these are questions we’ll never have answered.”
Slattery wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. It was a stupid question. He should have known better than to stick his nose into politics. It always came out bloody.
He looked over to the bed and saw a frightening weariness wash over Matthews’ face. The strength he had brought against his adversary withered away.
“If there’s nothing else, Peter,” Matthews said weakly, “I’d like to take a short nap.”
Chapter 63
Lincoln Memorial, Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 10:00 p.m.
I hate these stupid meetings!
Braxton once again trudged up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, looking for some sign of Luckett. At this time of the night, the memorial’s floodlights provided the only protection from the hidden demons of the Washington night. He had noticed a shadow at the top of the steps; a shape barely visible behind one of the massive Tennessee Marble columns.
Luckett must really enjoy playing these hide-and-seek games.
When he reached the top of the first level, the form became more distinct. It was clearly a man, sitting on the monument floor, hunched over. His chest lay against his raised thighs. The rumpled coat confirmed this was his favorite reporter.
“Taylor!” the consultant called. “It’s Adam. Quit loafing. Let’s get on with this.”
There was no recognition from the shape. It could be someone else, but who else would be here this time of the night? Why was he just sitting there?
“What was so important?”
Braxton jogged up the last few steps and walked over to his friend.
“Taylor?”
A chill cut through him despite the mild spring evening. No. It couldn’t be happening again.
He reached over and touched Luckett’s shoulder. The body shuddered, then slowly leaned away from him, falling onto its side against the cold floor.
“My God!” Braxton whispered.
The man’s face was unrecognizable. It had been brutally beaten.
He leaned down to look closer, moving his eyes down the body. Dark red stains covered the wrinkled white dress shirt. Farther down, two bloody clumps lay against his abdomen. Only when Braxton looked closer did he realize they were Luckett’s hands sticking out from the sleeves of his coat.
He reached down and lifted one of the clumps. What were once nimble fingers that pecked out exposés and investigative reports were now nothing but fragments of skin and bone tied together by silken white threads. Braxton felt sick to his stomach. Who could have done this?
“Aaaaagh.”
He almost missed the low animal-like groan.
“Taylor? Can you hear me?”
“Adam.” The word came invisibly from the mass of red and black that had once been the reporter’s face.
“Taylor. Who did this? Why?”
“Vision . . . not . . . who we expected.” The voice was even weaker than before.
Braxton fought off his repulsion and drew closer to the source of the sound.
“Vision One? What about them? What isn’t who we expected?”
“Not . . . in Amsterdam . . . not who . . .”
The voice dissolved into a meaningless rattle.
“Taylor! Please.” Braxton shook the body trying to force some response. “What about Amsterdam?”
The rattle stopped. Then there was nothing but silence.
Memories. Another time. Another place. Running for his life.
No! This time he wasn’t going to run away.
Emotionally drained, Braxton knelt to sit down next to his friend. As he did, a bullet passed over his head, its whine tearing through the fabric of the night. The projectile ricocheted off the column next to him, sending a rain of marble chips over Luckett’s lifeless body.
Braxton spun onto the floor of the monument. Another bullet struck above him and he scrambled frantically past the second row of columns.
A third shot. This one lower, about a foot off the ground, only inches behind his feet. Braxton huddled behind the column, trying to hide himself from the deadly fire.
The wail of police sirens rose from the distance. More memories. They had thought of everything. It was a very efficient setup.
Where was the sniper? Braxton edged his head around the column and was blinded by the glare of the floodlights. They masked the whole area around the memorial.
The assassin couldn’t be straight ahead, that was the reflecting pool. He had to be to one side or another.
He had been kneeling down toward Luckett. The shrapnel had scattered to his right. So the shooter had been on his left. Where? In the trees along the circle? He peeked out again and spotted the shadow of a Park Service Information Kiosk behind the lights. It was a perfect blind for the hunter. How could he use that to his advantage?
Braxton turned his head to look for another escape route and gasped at the sight of the overpowering statue behind him. Nineteen feet tall, cut from white Georgia Marble, President Abraham Lincoln stared down at him disapprovingly. “Why are you here?” he seemed to say. “Defacing my monument. Get out!”
Braxton gingerly crawled into the monument’s interior. When he looked back through the columns, he could no longer see the kiosk. There was no line of sight for the assassin. He was safe, temporarily.
But how could he escape? There had to be stairs, something. Off to his right he saw a sign: “Elevator.” He ran to the door and pulled. It was locked.
The only other door in the interior—which he discovered was also locked—led to the Gift Shop.
The sirens were growing louder. Would they be protection or a fatal invitation? Staying where he was sounded less and less like a promising strategy. Better to live to fight another day.
Bullshit! Better to live.
He had to go back out through the pillars. But he didn’t have to go down the great stairway. The main portion of the monument, along with the grand colonnade, sat on a pedestal about ten feet high, which itself sat on a larger base. A gravel pathway ran along the top of the base. If he could get to that pathway, he could go around the monument, and climb—or jump—down the sheer fifteen foot drop to the ground. By keeping the memorial between himself and the assassin, he might be able to get away.
He started at the far right of the entryway. Gathering his courage, he took a breath, then ran past the corner directly toward one of the front columns. A shot screamed past his head, burying itself in the marble exterior. He grabbed the flutes of the pillar for strength, and looked right to the five columns that marked the next steps in his e
scape.
Flashes of red appeared beyond the searing white lamps. If the assassin hadn’t moved, Braxton could run to the end of the colonnade, down to the pathway, over the side of the base, and across the grassy lawn to safety. If he had . . .
He dashed across the open space to the next pillar.
Braxton moved in bursts—frantic dashes to a column, anxious waiting as he huddled behind it—fear and adrenaline always in command. His heart pounded, filling his ears with deafening rushes, blocking any other sounds. All he cared about was the pathway ten feet below.
Racing to the last column, he decided there was no point in stopping. He blew by the upright, bounded off the end of the pedestal, and strode down three meter-high blocks to the base plateau.
* * *
Braxton glanced over his shoulder and stared through the taxi’s rear window, straining to identify the cars streaming behind them. Had he seen any of them before? The rain and fog, which had begun a few minutes before, was making it nearly impossible to decide.
No. There was no way anyone followed him. He was safe–for the moment.
After his run from the Monument, he had flagged a cab on Memorial Bridge and directed the driver to an apartment building in Bethesda. The taxi slid to a stop on the slick pavement, Braxton paid the fare, and dashed through the rain into the lobby of the high rise. Running his finger down the resident’s list, he stopped at “S. Walker” and pressed the small black button beside the name.
“Hello?” came a soft tinny voice.
“It’s Adam,” he replied. “Adam Braxton. I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Adam? What’s wrong? Did you find out something?”
“Yes. We have to talk. Hurry.”
“Eh, sure. Come on up. Ten oh-four.”
He heard an electronic buzz and pushed open the door.
* * *
“He’s dead?” Walker cried.
“Yes. It was awful. I’d never seen anything like it.”
Sydney Walker had greeted the agitated consultant at her door and led him into a small, neat apartment. She had been dressed informally, Georgetown University sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. Braxton had been immediately stuck by the knick-knacks and curios spread everywhere, from colorful Japanese cloisonné trays to delicate Hummel figurines. Just what you’d expect from a well-traveled spook.
