The President's Assassin (32 page)

I still wasn’t sure this was such a good idea. On the other hand, I had really gotten myself into a box. I was the one who agreed to the deal.

Chuck Wardell was nodding, and Mrs. Hooper also began nodding. It was dawning on them that this wasn’t a perfect solution, but there were no perfect solutions, and it satisfied everybody’s needs, egos, and moral/political equations.

Actually, not quite everybody’s.

Jennie knew it, too, because she turned to me and said, “Sean, the final vote is yours. They selected you as the courier.”

“Right. Why?”

“Who knows? Perhaps because you’re a lawyer, not a law enforcement professional. Perhaps they regard you as the least threatening option. But I doubt they’ll accept a replacement. If it were possible, believe me, I would do this myself.”

Everybody at the table was now avoiding my eyes.

Jennie assured me, “It won’t be as risky as it sounds. We do this all the time, usually with kidnappers. We have experts in this field. You’ll have the best professionals in the world backing you up.”

Very persuasive. So I thought about it a little more. I thought about June Lacy and about Joan Townsend. I really wanted to get physically close to Jason Barnes. I had an almost burning need to put my hands around his throat. Also, if we didn’t take this chance, every additional death would be on my shoulders, my conscience, my watch. Could I live with that?

Then again, I’d be an idiot to say yes. It was a desperate gamble and, like all reckless choices, was too obvious, too predictable, too transparent. Jason Barnes, a former Secret Service agent, would expect this; he would know the tricks, and as Phyllis noted, he would have safeguards and precautions. Also, up to this point, I was on the losing team, they were the winning team, and the underlying reasons for that hadn’t changed.

When I was young and idealistic, brimming with youthful naïveté, I would have regarded this as Sean Drummond’s God-given duty in the eternal battle of good versus evil. But I had become too old and too worldly to subscribe to the facile conceit that the good guys always win, or even that the good guys always
have
to win. The truth is, it can be enough to just make the bad guys go away. Somewhere down in Brazil, I’m convinced, there’s a quaint ville populated by smug assholes who gather in the bars every evening and regale one another with tales about how
they
got away with it. Fine. As long as they weren’t still getting away with it.

So I looked Jennie straight in the eye and I said, “Great idea.”

Jennie squeezed my shoulder. To Mrs. Hooper she said, “Please call the White House and get authorization.” To Mr. Wardell, “Call your old bosses at Treasury. We need fifty million in clean, used bills here in one hour.”

CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE

I
N NO TIME
,
THE ROOM CLEARED
,
AND
B
UREAU EXPERTS OF VARIOUS VIN
tages and types began pouring in, including a heavyset Hispanic lady named Rita Sanchez. Jennie introduced us and informed me that Special Agent Sanchez was the FBI’s expert in ransom and hostage extremis situations, whatever that means. I was really hoping she was here for her expertise in the former, not the latter.

Rita studied me a moment, then said, “So...you’re the sucker, huh?”

I must’ve looked a little upset by that remark, because she laughed and said, “Hey, loosen up. You’re gonna be fine. Payoffs are a cakewalk. Hostages are the bitch. I’ve lost only”—she paused and counted her fingers—“only three couriers in my career.” She laughed. “The other guy still sends me Christmas gifts.”

For some reason, Jennie also found this really funny.

Personally, I thought Rita Sanchez’s bedside manner could stand a little work.

Jennie then smoothly backed off and allowed Rita and me to chitchat about inconsequential nonsense for about five minutes. The manual calls this establishing rapport and developing a personal connection. Con men call it sizing up the mark.

Rita was very good at this, and in no time we bonded, were exchanging home addresses, and planning a future vacation together. Not really.

Anyway, Rita Sanchez had a slight Spanish accent, and was a bit plump for an agent, but it has been my experience that in image-conscious organizations that accentuate fitness and trimness—like the Army—exceptions get made for the prodigies. She was not particularly polished, but she struck me as street-smart and savvy.

Agent Sanchez pointed at a chair and said, “Sit. Now we’re gonna go over a few things. Listen real close to every word. Seriously. Do everything I tell you, and the Bureau will buy you a nice steak dinner tonight.”

Golden words. I sat.

“Let me tell you what could happen,” she said. “Then I’ll tell you what I think’s gonna happen.”

“Could we start with what I want to happen?”

She glanced at Jennie and commented, “Hey, he’s funny.”

Jennie replied, “When he’s stressed, he responds with sarcasm.” She then lifted a hand to her ear and asked, “By the way, Rita, are those your knees I hear knocking?”

Yuck-yuck.

“All right,” Rita informed me, “for starters, they might run you around a bit. Probably inside the city, maybe around some built-up suburbs. This way they can blend into the environment and watch for tails.”

I nodded.

She continued, “I’ve seen cases where they ran the courier seven or eight hours. Sometimes they’ll run you by the same site three or four times. The smarter ones are trying to draw us to that site. The dumb ones actually use that site for the drop-off. Haw-haw—you wouldn’t believe how stupid some of these people are.” She turned to Jennie and advised, “He’s gotta have a phone jack in the car for his cell phone. Two or three spare batteries, too, some sandwiches and sodas. And make sure the car tank’s topped off.”

Jennie turned to an agent standing beside the door and said, “Handle that now.”

He collected my cell phone and departed.

Rita asked me, “You know D.C.?”

“Where? Oh...that big place across the river.”

Jennie said, “Ignore him. He knows it well enough.”

“Right.” Rita looked a little worried, however, and said, “We’ll make sure a map’s in the car. Point is, stay cool. They jerk you around, that’s a good sign. The pros know the car’s gonna have a tracker on it, you’re tagged, and it don’t really make a damn whether they run you back and forth to Phoenix.” She paused to be sure I understood.

“Got it.”

“Sometimes, they send you straight to the drop-off. That’s usually a bad sign for us.”

“Why?”

“Then you’re gonna become a hostage. We don’t like that. See, the smarter ones, they reverse the process. They’ll have their own vehicle, and usually they’ll try to make you get in. Got it?”

“Right.”

“They’ll try all kinds of gimmicks and tricks. Car switches, usually done inside parking garages or tunnels. That kind of shit.” She looked at Jennie and said, “Case they get nervous or pissed off, we need to make sure they got another number to call other than his.”

“They already have mine,” Jennie assured her.

I didn’t like the sound of this.

I asked, “Nervous or pissed off about
what
?”

She turned back to me and, I noted, did not specifically address this question. She said, “But I have to tell you, taking hostages, that’s rare. Most criminals are bush league. They think they can outsmart us and they’re wrong.”

Great. “My question was, in case they get pissed off about what?”

Rita and Jennie exchanged quick glances. Jennie commented, “Sean, we know these people are experienced in killing, and possibly weapons thefts. But expertise in kidnapping is a whole different skillset with a whole different set of risks and rules.”

I was being reassured to death and getting a little tired of it. I looked at Jennie, no longer sure whose side she was on. I said, “You and I, we’re still watching each other’s butts, right?”

She squeezed my shoulder and smiled.

It couldn’t hurt to ask, so I looked at Rita. “Ever have a case where they just whacked the courier?”

I saw that evasive look again. “There’s no upside in that. Once they get the money, you got no value dead. It only complicates things for them. If they make you a hostage, you only got value alive and kicking. See how that works?” She paused for a moment before she noted, “Unless...well, now, I gotta ask...you done anything to piss these people off?”

Had I? Well, I had tried to put all their murderous asses into the electric chair. But that hadn’t worked out obviously. I shook my head.

“Good. Don’t. Stay real polite and respectful. These people are gonna be nervous and strung out. Agitating them would be a really dumb idea. Remember...polite and respectful.”

Jennie shook her head and commented, “That’s not really his strong suit.”

Hah-hah. This went on a while longer, the two of them keeping it lighthearted, like this was just a big lark that stupid little Sean really shouldn’t worry about. Then Rita began relating anecdotes from past cases she thought might be illustrative and instructive. Of course, they all had happy endings.

Then phase one—called, I think, “Motivating and Instructing the Idiot”—ended, and three new agents hustled into the conference room.

Rita introduced her colleagues, whose names I immediately forgot. One studied me a moment, then reached into a big bag, withdrew a flak jacket, and handed it to me. Rita said, “Try it on. Just a precaution.”

Jennie chose this moment to inform me, “We can’t give you a weapon, Sean. You’re not a federal agent. Also, if Barnes’s people discover a gun it would cause major problems.”

I very reasonably pointed out, “Not having a gun could pose bigger problems.”

Rita Sanchez had obviously been through all this before, because she brushed my objection aside and informed me, “Now it’s time to show our bag of tricks. You’ll be driving a Suburban—that’s your weapon. It’s a special model with a nitrous oxide–charged 450-horsepower engine, it’s bulletproof, and nearly bombproof. Curb weight’s four tons, enough to bash aside anything that gets in your path. So if this goes to shit, push the nitrous oxide button, hit the pedal, and scoot.”

“I’d rather have the gun, thank you.”

She smiled at me, turned to one of her assistants, and said, “Get the suppository.”

The agent opened a small briefcase, peeked inside, and then withdrew a tiny metal cylinder, which he held up for me to examine.

“Wait a minute—You’re not sticking that up my butt.”

Rita thought this was very funny. She said, “We used to do that. But I got tired of looking up people’s asses, so I begged the Bureau to find something else. This is the ingestible form.” I’m sure the relief on my face was palpable as she held it in front of my eyes to inspect. “As you probably guessed, it’s a tracking device. In this case, developed by our friends at the Agency. Spooks tend to be real cautious, and they use wands to detect transmitting devices. These days anyone can buy those wands on eBay, so this little baby stays inactive till we signal it to transmit. We turn it on and off intermittently. Range of fifty miles, and it stays in your tummy till your next bowel movement. We’ll activate it only if you become a hostage.”

And more of the same. Basically, the plan was that I would go wherever Jason sent me, would rise to unexplored heights of courteousness and civility, and would deliver the package, which turned out to be not one package but fifteen oversized Samsonite suitcases stuffed with fifty million in used cash.

Option A was to unload the suitcases at the location of their choice and then depart, Sean’s ass intact. Under option B, Sean would end up escorting the money containers a little longer than anticipated.

Nobody wanted to dwell much on option B. This was not a particularly good sign.

About twenty minutes into this, Jennie took a call from Mrs. Hooper, who informed her the President said it was a go and personally wished me luck and Godspeed.

Great—my final chance for a reprieve just flew out the window. But if this thing worked out okay, maybe I could ask
him
for a job. Of course, if it didn’t work out, I wouldn’t have a job problem and his would just be starting.

Rita and Jennie reassured me three dozen times that everything was going to work out fine. A tribe of agents would be following my every move. A fleet of helicopters would darken the skies. The District of Columbia police commissioner had been brought into the act, and at that moment was maneuvering blocking units into position to close every major and even insignificant artery out of the city.

But it would never come to that, Rita assured me. In the unlikely event I became a hostage, and the completely unlikely event the bad guys gave them the slip, Rita would flip on the little transmitter and I’d be in broadcast mode. Once I made face-to-face contact with the perps, their minutes were numbered.

The Army has a saying: Prior planning prevents piss-poor execution. I knew Agent Rita Sanchez and her crew had been through this drill before, they sounded like they understood the odds and possibilities, they appeared confident, and they were making the proper preparations. Yet it did not escape my attention that we weren’t the only ones planning. The opposition probably had schemed and prepared for this moment for months.

A very long day had become an eternity.

CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX

E
VENTUALLY THE PREPARATION PHASE ENDED AND WE SHIFTED INTO PHASE
two, titled, I think, “Don’t Let the Idiot Think About It.”

Somebody wheeled a television into the conference room, and we sipped coffee, shared a tray of stale tuna sandwiches, observed the news coverage, and tried to act cool and relaxed.

Jennie informed us she had calls to make and important coordination to accomplish, and she stepped out, leaving me with Rita, who for the next thirty minutes tried to thread that fine line between impressing me with her sharpness and keeping my head in the clouds. Eventually, Jennie returned.

It did not escape my attention that Jennie and Rita were isolating me from the preparations occurring outside this room. Occasionally, agents poked their heads into the room, and either Rita or Jennie stepped outside to confer for a few moments.