Act of Treason (3 page)

Rivera started for the front door. She was dressed in a dark blue pantsuit with a light blue blouse. She never wore skirts or dresses, at least not when she was on duty. They simply weren’t practical. Every agent on the detail carried the new FN 5.7 pistol and two extra clips of ammunition. The FN 5.7 was the finest pistol she’d ever fired. It carried twenty armor-piercing rounds in the grip plus one in the chamber and had half the recoil of the old Sig. In addition to her weapon she carried her secure Motorola digital radio, a mobile phone, and a BlackBerry. All of that gear had to be stowed someplace and a dress just wasn’t going to cut it.

Rivera opened the large, front door and stepped out onto the stone terrace of the Dumbarton Mansion. She was a walking contradiction—understated yet beautiful, graceful yet athletic. Her shiny black hair was almost always pulled back in a simple ponytail. Thanks to her ancestors she was blessed with a wrinkle-free complexion. She wore very little makeup while on duty and made every effort to downplay her looks. The Secret Service was still very much a men’s club. A men’s club with an extremely difficult job. Part of that job was to be seen. To let people know they were there at all times monitoring the situation. At no point, though, were they to outshine the people they were protecting.

Donning a pair of sunglasses, she surveyed the scene from the elevated terrace and checked her watch. It was almost a quarter past noon. She couldn’t wait to get Alexander and Ross safely tucked away at the Naval Observatory. Then the vice president’s detail could take over, and she and her team could get a few hours of much needed down time before they had to fly to St. Louis.

Rivera spotted the man she wanted to talk to at the far end of the veranda. She started in his direction. It was drilled into agents to look presentable at all times. Clothes were to be cleaned and pressed. No ties with ketchup stains or dirty shirt collars. Footwear was stressed to the point where one would think they were training for the Olympics. Agents had to stand post for long hours. They needed to be comfortable. It was function over form. Rivera remembered an instructor she’d had at the training center in Beltsville, Maryland, who used to tell female agents if they couldn’t sprint two blocks in their shoes, then they shouldn’t be wearing them. This was the same instructor who used to admonish female agents for wearing skirts. He’d tell them, “Do you want to be remembered as the agent who saved the president’s life by wrestling a gunman to the ground, or do you want to be remembered as the agent who showed the world her panties while tackling an assassin?”

Rivera took all these lessons seriously. That was why she was wearing a pair of black, lace-up loafers with two-inch heels and rubber soles. They were made of patent leather because she hated shining shoes. The rubber sole made them comfortable and quiet. Rivera was reminded of this second attribute as she neared the agent at the far end of the veranda. He had no idea someone was coming up from behind him. This was a bad sign, rubber soles or not. Her people were running on fumes.

A few feet away she decided to have some fun. She stuck out her finger and jabbed it into the small of the large man’s back. Matt Cash, a nine-year veteran of the Secret Service, jumped as if he’d just been startled from a nap.

“One wrong move and you’re dead,” Rivera laughed.

Cash wheeled around and it was obvious from the expression on his face that he was not amused. “What in the hell is wrong with you?”

Rivera grinned, showing her perfect white teeth.

“The press is right there on the other side of the fence,” Cash whispered.

She looked at the TV vans parked on the street and the photographers perched on ladders so they could shoot over the brick wall. She stepped in front of the agent and looked down at his groin. “You didn’t piss yourself, did you?”

“Yeah,” he said angrily. “Hurry up and give me one of those super jumbo maxi-pads you carry around. Maybe I can soak it up before it seeps through my boxers.”

“Wow…aren’t we in a good mood today?”

“Don’t start with me.” Cash grabbed the lapels of his suit coat and gave them a yank. “I’m sick of this shit.”

Such an open admission caught Rivera off guard. As the special agent in charge of the detail she wasn’t just their boss. She was also their den mother.

“By
shit
…are you referring to me, your job, or both?”

“Not you,” he snarled. “The job. I’ve been on the road for three straight months. My kids miss me, my wife hates me, and here I am back in DC for the day and I can’t even stop by my own house and say hello.”

Rivera smiled. “Well, I’ve got some good news for you. HQ is going to let us stand down for a few hours while the vice president’s detail babysits our boys.”

Cash’s jaw went slack. “You’re serious.”

“Yep. Take a few hours…go surprise the family. Just don’t miss the plane or I’ll shove one of my maxi-pads up your ass and transfer you to Fargo.”

“So once we get to the Observatory I can take off?” he asked with a smile.

“Not right away. You have to hang around for thirty minutes and then take the princess to her hotel. After that you’re free until five.” The princess Rivera was referring to was Alexander’s wife.

“Why me?” Cash complained.

“Because you’re her favorite, and she asked for you personally.”

“Send someone else.”

“You think this is fuckin’ democracy?” she shot back and waited to see if he would be stupid enough to disagree with her. “I didn’t think so. Take her to the hotel, put her to bed, and then go see your family.”

“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What in the hell is what supposed to mean?” asked a genuinely confused Rivera.

“Put her to bed,”
he said in a falsetto. “You trying to say something’s going on?”

Rivera frowned and said, “It’s a figure of speech, Einstein.”

“Well, I don’t appreciate the connotation.”

“I think you mean implication, and there is none.” Rivera straightened up and took on a decidedly more businesslike tone. “You’re in the second limo with her. I’m in the lead limo with the principals. We get to the observatory and she shakes hands for thirty minutes. Then you take her to the hotel, make sure she’s secure in her room, and then turn things over to whomever HQ sends. Do you have any questions, Special Agent Cash?”

“No.”

“Good.”

G
AZICH CROSSED THE STREET
and started up the east side of Wisconsin Avenue. He had seen the itinerary. The thing was actually posted on the Internet. They were supposed to be on the move at noon, but it was likely they would be running late. Rarely were these types of things ever on time. This next part of his plan was a bit risky. Gazich could have set up a camera and done this from a safe distance, but the window for success was too small to risk it. He needed to be precise. The shaped charge in the cargo area was more than capable of defeating the protective shell of the armored limousine as long as it was detonated at the right moment. Gazich figured he had a twenty-foot window. Not all that much longer than the limo itself. If the motorcade was moving at a good clip, the timing would be difficult. That was why he had parked the minivan as close to the corner of Wisconsin and S Street as possible. The motorcade would have traveled only one block by the time it reached Wisconsin. The vehicles would then be forced to slow for the ninety-degree turn onto Wisconsin Avenue where the minivan was perfectly positioned for a broadside blast.

If it were the president’s motorcade things would be quite a bit more difficult. In addition to the armored limousines and Suburbans, the ambulance, and a myriad of other vehicles, the presidential motorcade also contained a special vehicle that was designed to jam all signals except those used by the Secret Service. This made the remote detonation of a device impossible. Gazich had checked and discovered that the detail assigned to the candidates had no such equipment. Even so, he would still need to get close enough to make sure he could see when the limo came even with the minivan.

Gazich passed a young couple sitting on a bench eating bagels. Two blocks ahead he could see the orange stepladder he’d strapped to the roof of the van. It had been a last-minute idea when he’d noticed that white minivans were more common than he would have thought. The color of the ladder would also make it easier for him to time the detonation. Not wanting to get too close to the van, he stopped and looked at the listings posted in the window of a real estate office.

He felt the vibration of the Treo phone in his pocket and grabbed it.

“Hello?”

“Two o’clock works for me. Does it work for you?”

“Two o’clock works.” Gazich pressed the end button, breathed a sigh of relief, and put the phone away.

He kept meandering his way up the street, taking his time, window-shopping as he went. A few minutes later he heard the quick blast of a police siren being flicked on and then off. He looked up the street and watched as one of the DC Metro Police motorcycles eased out into traffic and blocked the northbound lane on Wisconsin Avenue. Gazich flexed his hands several times and asked himself how much closer he dared get. The motorcade would be along shortly. There was a good-sized tree of some sort a little less than a block away. It was about four feet across. Even though the full force of the blast would be directed away from him, there would still be flying debris and a concussion wave that could kill him if he didn’t get cover.

Gazich reached the tree and pulled out the Treo phone. He fished out the small stylus and used it to tap the web browser icon on the screen. A few seconds later he was logged onto the site. He punched in the password and looked up at the motorcycle cop standing in the middle of the street. All that was left to do was hit the send button and the blast would be nearly instantaneous. The cop would be dead for certain, and quite possibly the people in the first several cars he had stopped. There were also shops and apartments directly across the street. There was a chance the limo would block the brunt of the blast, but it was unlikely. A five-hundred-pound shaped charge of Semtex was just as likely to hurl the limousine across the street and send the vehicle directly through the building.

Gazich tried to remember the phrase the American generals used when one of their two-thousand-pound bombs missed its mark and flattened the home of one of his countrymen. The first police car reached the corner and turned toward Gazich, its lights and sirens going. Pedestrians stopped to watch the impressive sight as the motorcade moved from the side street onto Wisconsin Avenue.

The phrase came to him and as the first limousine reached the corner, he smiled and said…“Collateral damage.”

T
HE TRUTH WAS,
her people could do this in their sleep. That was how well trained they were. The candidates stepped out onto the veranda of the mansion and waited for the former Cabinet officials, intel gurus, and generals to join them for one last photo op. Rivera stayed close, but out of the picture. Her entire detail was shifting now. They were a protective bubble that floated with the candidates as they moved. There was one counter sniper team on the top floor. They’d been up there since before sunrise, scanning the windows of the houses across the street, getting the general lay of the land, noting the range of certain targets and identifying the most likely spots for a shooter to set up.

Rivera’s head was on a swivel, her dark sunglasses concealing her dark eyes. She was like a radar sweeping the sky for an incoming raider, except her job was much more difficult. The press was penned in behind some ropes, snapping away, recording tape, and shouting questions. Rivera paid almost no attention to what they were asking. On a subliminal level she was listening to their tone as her eyes scanned everything. Never hovering on any one person for more than a second or two. Most agents did this naturally. A few had to be taught. The ones who didn’t catch on were weeded out. The job was nothing if not instinctual.

Their concern was the nut bag. Their fear was the professional. The nut bag they could detect. They were the ones with the wild eyes, dirty fingernails, and unkempt hair. Occasionally they were women, but mostly they were men. Fidgety, nervous men who paced back and forth. They were for the most part mentally ill, which made them sympathetic, but no less lethal. The professional was an entirely different matter. The lone man who was cool enough to act completely normal right up until the moment he pulled out a gun and blew her candidate’s brains all over the sidewalk. That was why she stayed close.

Today was no big deal. She knew all the faces in the press gallery. They were the only people close enough to do anything, and she had two agents watching them, ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble. The only other possibility was a shooter from one of the houses across the street, but the odds of them getting an accurate shot off before the counter sniper boys drilled them in the head was negligible. All she had to do was get them down the steps and into the limo and she could relax. The Naval Observatory was only a few blocks away. This was a gravy run compared to the rest of the campaign. No rope lines with hundreds of unscreened people touching the candidates. No banquet hall where she had to escort them through a kitchen with knives everywhere and temperamental chefs sulking over ruined meals. Everything today was controlled.

Rivera saw Garret gesture to the campaign’s press secretary. The woman stepped in front of the cameras and thanked them for coming. Alexander and Ross had done this so many times they no longer needed to be given direction. Both men started down the stairs for the waiting limo. The rear passenger side door was already opened and an agent was standing next to it. Rivera fell in behind the two men and stayed close as they went down the steps. Alexander got in first, followed by Ross and then Garret. Rivera closed the door and looked to her left to check the status of Alexander’s wife. She was sliding into the backseat. Special Agent Cash turned to look at Rivera. It was impossible to tell what his eyes were doing behind his sunglasses, but from the tension in his jaw line it was apparent that he was still in a foul mood. Cash shook his head and then disappeared into the backseat. Rivera didn’t give it a second thought. Egos, feelings, and friendships needed to be put on hold for two more weeks and then they could all get drunk and tell each other off.