Terror in D.C. (3 page)

The vigilante rubbed his chest thoughtfully. The firefight test had been lifelike, all right. He hoped he was never asked to try it again.

The complex was located on the south side of Washington, D.C., not far from Bolling Air Force Base and the Naval Research Lab. Its entire ten acres was encircled by high military fencing, and camouflage netting covered the open areas. James Hawker had come here every day for the last three days. He had been interviewed by a dozen men whose last names he never knew. He had been asked searching questions by men in white smocks who he assumed were psychiatrists. He had been given a bank of written tests far more demanding than any he had ever taken in college or at the police academy in Chicago.

And why?

Because his friend and associate, Jacob Montgomery Hayes, one of the wealthiest men in the world, had sent a messenger to Hawker's newly acquired fish shack on the west coast of Florida asking him to fly to Washington, D.C., immediately.

No explanations were offered. And, from Hayes—a man Hawker respected and admired—none were required.

Hawker caught the first flight from Miami to Washington International.

Lester Rehfuss met him at the airport, showed him to his hotel, and finally gave him a short briefing on the terrorist bombings. That was on a Monday. Rehfuss told him that seven civilian houses, apparently at random, had been bombed by a person or persons unknown. Because the bombing of the Rutledge home was the most recent—it had occurred only three days before—Rehfuss went into greater detail about it. So far, twenty-seven innocent, unsuspecting men, women, and children had been murdered.

The only survivor was Luke Rutledge, age sixteen, and he was now catatonic, so psychologically disturbed that he could not speak.

Hawker tried to pry more information out of Rehfuss. Had he been ordered to Washington to help? Who was behind it? How could anyone be sure the bombings were random? Didn't there have to be some pattern behind it?

Rehfuss refused to answer. All he told Hawker was that he might be able to help, but first they had to be sure he was capable. Would Hawker submit to any tests asked of him?

Hawker consented on the spot.

It wasn't until the next day he learned that Lester Rehfuss was with the CIA.

Hawker followed Rehfuss out of the firefight test area past a line of big corrugated steel and brick buildings. The doors on all of them warned
ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT CLEARANCE!

Each door was guarded by a brace of Marines in battle dress.

For the first time Hawker realized he had actually seen very little of the complex in his three days there.

He wondered why he was being allowed to see more.

A modern paved street ran along the stretch of buildings, but the only vehicles there were either jeeps or unmarked government cars in bland colors.

Rehfuss stopped at a white-brick three-story house that looked like the solid old residence of a small-town doctor.

“This is it,” he said.

“Shouldn't I change clothes? Wash up? Practice my Morse code?”

“Smart ass.” He tossed Hawker the sport jacket he had been carrying for him. “Put this on—at least try to cover up that cannon you've got strapped under your arm. Like I said, the admiral isn't going to like you much as it is.”

Two Marines challenged their approach. Hawker had become used to the extreme security measures. They studied his Pliofilmed ID carefully, then they watched as first Rehfuss, then Hawker, touched their thumbs to the photoelectric eye after first inserting their IDs into the gray steel box beside the entrance.

The computers would match their thumb prints against those on the IDs and those in the computer's files.

Almost immediately the doors swung open. The Marines did a salute arms as they went inside.

Hawker had never been inside the building before. Unlike most of the office complexes, this one lacked the stark military atmosphere of gray steel desks and bare linoleum floors. There was carpeting and soft neon lighting. In each office vestibule serious-looking women wearing ID badges worked at desktop computers.

“So where are we headed, oh, leader?” Hawker asked.

Rehfuss stopped at the elevator and touched the button. “Do you like movies?”

“What kind of movies?”

“New movies.”

Hawker shook his head. “Impossible. They stopped making movies when Cary Grant and John Wayne and David Niven left the business. Now they just make long TV programs. The male actors all go to the same hairstylist, and the female performers confuse bitchiness with acting. And if you can't tell, no, I don't like them.”

“Don't speak too quickly. We have one today you may like.”

“Does it have a happy ending?”

“Almost.”

“Then don't expect a glowing review.”

Still another Marine ushered them into a darkened room where a cement floor sloped toward a screen the size of a picture window: a movie room. The seating area was small, though, only about twenty plush chairs. Between the seating area and the screen the floor flattened abruptly, and there was a large table.

From the back of the room Hawker could see that five people sat in the front row. He couldn't see their faces.

Rehfuss took a seat midway down, and Hawker sat beside him. “Trying to humor me before I get my evaluation?”

“If I were trying to humor you, I'd have brought popcorn,” Rehfuss said wryly. “Shut up and watch.”

From the front row an older man with white hair and an anvil jaw turned slightly. “Is the applicant with you, Agent Rehfuss?”

“He is, Admiral.”

In a louder voice, the admiral said, “Roll the film, then.”

Without any sign of a projector being switched on, the screen was suddenly illuminated. Hawker was surprised to see himself standing in the dirt street of the firefight range, just closing the cylinder of his Colt .44 magnum. On the right side of the screen digits measuring minutes, seconds, and hundredths of seconds timed him.

The film was in color.

James Hawker settled back and watched with interest. Why not? This would be like being favored with a preview of the way he knew he would someday die.…

four

“I thought good guys always wore white,” Rehfuss whispered with a smirk.

Hawker considered the screen and the black sweater he wore. “They do. Is that why all CIA agents wear gray suits?”

“Touché.”

“Touché
yourself. How in the hell did your people get this thing processed and set up so fast?”

“It's on tape, for one thing. We used three department cameramen. They were inside the houses. And, believe it or not, it's not the first time we've ever tested someone. All the agents with a Blue Light rating get the firefight treatment.”

“Blue Light rating?”

“When a person is shot in the head, supposedly all he sees is a blue light.”

“Very romantic. Is that like a license to kill?”

“You read too many books. Watch yourself get outsmarted. Maybe you'll learn something.”

So Hawker watched:

… watched as he nearly gunned down the mechanical lady with the shopping bag.

… watched as he blew away the two guys who jumped out of the bushes.

… watched as he dove into the tanker truck, got it rolling, then jumped out and nailed two more of the mannequins.

… watched as he wounded, then killed, the gunman in the third-floor window.

… watched all the rest of it, from the detonation of the smoke bomb to the final shoot-out with the three mannequins on the porch and, finally, his own demise at the hands of the pistol-packing bag lady. As he watched, the memory of the searing pain he had felt made his muscles knot once again, but he didn't have long to think about it.

The lights went on almost immediately.

CIA Agent Lester Rehfuss was grinning. “Next time, get yourself a decent leading lady, Hawk. That mug of yours won't sell a single ticket.”

“You were right about that back somersault I did. Pretty impressive.”

“Got a pretty good laugh from a couple of the guys up front. Or didn't you notice?”

“Yeah, I noticed. And I'm just wondering how much it would cost me to buy a ticket to see them get hit by that goddamned laser beam.”

“You really would like that?”

“Hell, they laughed, didn't they …?” But then Hawker saw what Rehfuss meant. The five people in the front row were on their feet now. Two of them turned and peered toward the rear of the theater as their eyes adjusted to the light.

Hawker had no trouble recognizing either of them.

The stocky, middle-sized man with the wire-rimmed glasses and the ascetic expression was Hawker's friend, Jacob Montgomery Hayes.

The other was tall, lean, saber-faced Hendricks, Hayes's acerbic butler.

Hawker hadn't seen either of them for more than five months, so he had to restrain himself as he approached them. They, too, seemed happy to see him, and they met him halfway up the aisle, away from the others.

“Christ, Jake,” Hawker smiled, half whispering, “I knew you had connections, but I had no idea you were involved with the Central Intelligence Agency.”

Hayes, in his mid-sixties, wearing an Irish tweed jacket and no tie, smiled in return. “I'm not involved with them, James. But a friend of mine got in touch with me last Saturday about this bombing business, and I had to pull a few strings. The strings led me here.”

Hawker looked at the butler and grinned. “And Hank came along with you, too, huh?”

Hendricks hated to be called “Hank.”

The butler lifted his eyebrows, which was about as close as he ever came to smiling. “Quite a performance you gave for the cameras, James,” he said. “You die beautifully.”

Hawker shook his head. “I'm sorry about that, guys. I really am. I wanted to help, and I took all their damn tests. And the one I thought I'd be best at, the firefight, is the one I failed.”

“Would you gentlemen care to sit at the table while we go over a few things?” a voice called. It wasn't a question. It was an order. Admiral Maxwell Percival stood at the head of the long mahogany table addressing them. He wore a dark blue civilian suit. His hair was thick, pure white, and he had wild, bushy eyebrows.

“Be right with you, Max,” Hendricks called back.

“Max?”
Hawker asked.

“And what else would I call an American who was one of my subordinates in MI-5 during the war?” the Englishman asked with aplomb.

“Now you know one of the strings I had to pull,” Jake Hayes whispered as the three of them, followed by Rehfuss, took their seats.

Only Admiral Percival remained standing. He began, “I need not remind you, gentlemen, that what is said here falls under the National Security Secrets Act of 1942. You may not repeat to anyone what is said here under penalty of law. To my left is Agent Miller, to my right is Agent Nelson. Agent Rehfuss is sitting next to the participant. These agents have been asked to evaluate the test results of the participant. Prior tests concerning intellectual, psychological, and physical fitness were all satisfactory. I will not go into those, nor will they be available for the participant's—or anyone else's—perusal. We are here solely to discuss the participant's performance on the firefight range. Agent Miller, you will give the first critique.” In a louder voice, Admiral Percival said, “Please roll the film again.”

Once more Hawker sat and watched as he ran the laser gauntlet. Twice Agent Miller had the tape stopped to criticize Hawker's performance: for sloppy shooting when he only wounded the third-floor gunman (“Prone position is the most effective position for difficult shots”), and for reloading on the run (“He should have taken cover to reload. The participant had no idea where his adversaries were positioned”).

When the film was over the lights came on once more. Admiral Percival did not stand. He nodded at the man to his left. “You are excused, Agent Miller.”

When the door was closed the admiral once again asked for the tape to be shown, and Hawker sat silently while Agent Nelson offered criticism. He, too, had the film stopped twice. “When he was confronted by three adversaries at once, he shot the man in the middle first, then he shot the man to his right. He should have taken the man to his right first. The man was left-handed. Statistically, left-handed men are better marksmen. When he was confronted by the woman with the shopping bag who ultimately shot him, he should have known immediately she was an adversary. No woman would come out of a house only moments after three men had been shot on her porch. Her intent should have been clear to the participant.”

Hawker said nothing, trying hard not to look like the idiot he felt himself to be. The CIA man was absolutely right—he should have known!

Agent Nelson was dismissed as perfunctorily as Agent Miller.

When he was gone Admiral Percival rubbed his forehead for a moment as if he had a slight headache, then looked up. “Agent Rehfuss, your summary?”

The craggy man with the thin blond hair cleared his throat. “Well, I thought Mr. Hawk—the participant—performed quite well. Extremely well, as a matter of fact. Perhaps I should remind the Admiral that only one agent in the three-year history of the firefight course has made it satisfactorily as far—”

“I'm familiar with past scores on the course,” Percival cut in. “Please confine your summary to the matter at hand.”

“I was about to say that the most common mistake is to assault the course without proper regard for civilian lives. Fifty-eight percent of the participants kill the first woman with the shopping bag. Seventy-six percent of the participants blow up the children in the preschool. Nineteen percent are killed trying to skirt the tanker truck and avoid a confrontation. Only five percent handle the situation satisfactorily, and only one other participant has scored kills on the tank-truck gunmen—”