The President's Assassin (33 page)

At one point, Jennie informed Rita, “Did you know Sean was a former infantry officer? Special Forces, in fact. He survived some really tough scrapes.” Rita looked suitably impressed and commented, “Great. Barnes and his pals won’t give a certified badass like him the slightest problem.”

I was sure this routine came straight from the Bureau manual chapter called “Preparing the Happy Lamb for the Slaughter.”

Nor did it escape my notice that Jennifer Margold, with whom I had nearly played a round of hide-the-willie, had suddenly cooled considerably toward yours truly. She had become distanced, and almost clinical, bordering on manipulative. I was sure she was legitimately concerned for me. Still, I found it annoying to go from being the object of her sweaty obsession to Sean the idiot.

In a way, I was delighted she had her head in the game. In a larger way, I really wasn’t.

Eventually I asked Rita, “Why do they want cash?”

“It’s why bad guys do the things they do.”

“I mean—”

“I know what you mean. You thought crooks all had numbered accounts in some overseas bank they want you to wire money to.”

“Don’t they?”

“Lots do want it done electronically. These days, the more sophisticated ones don’t.”

“Why not?”

“We now have the ability to put electronic tracers on it. Don’t matter how many times they move it, we’ll still be waiting at the end, when they try to get it out of the bank.”

Intermittingly, George appeared on the tube creating what I thought was a splendid illusion of professional confidence, ballooning into optimism. A few pesky reporters weren’t buying this act and kept trying to worm embarrassing or insightful information from him, which George parried with wonderfully vague responses and his perpetual I-know-something-you-don’t smirk. I usually found that expression annoying. This was the exception. The public would be scared shitless if it knew the amount of vacuous space behind that smirk.

Eventually, Jennie went to the fax machine and retrieved the files CID had zipped over regarding our newest suspect, Mr. Clyde Wizner. She tried to struggle through them, but they made little sense to her, and she slid them across the table at me. “Tell me about this guy.”

In one way or another, Clyde Wizner might soon be enjoying a very big role in my life, so this was the first useful diversion. Anyway, military files tend to be somewhat one-dimensional and impersonal. They tell you things like where a soldier’s from, where he/she has been assigned, how he/she’s been trained, and what to do with him/her after they’re dead. In short, a great deal about the person and nothing about the personality.

So here’s the deal. Clyde Wizner was forty-nine years old, originally from Killeen, the town outside Fort Hood. He had entered the Army at the age of twenty-two in the year 1977, a high school graduate, no college, and had a GT score—roughly comparable to an IQ—of 135. So Clyde was bright and was selected to become an Army engineer, with a subspecialty in EOD, or Explosive Ordnance Disposal—an expertise that takes nerves of steel, a wonderful memory for tiny details and textbook procedures, and a large reliable life insurance policy.

After basic training and a few specialty training courses, Clyde spent three years at Fort Hood, followed by three years in Germany, a year in Korea, three more years at Hood, and then out. Interspersed between those assignments, he attended plenty of additional training, a few leadership courses and a few bombs and mines things to keep him current on the latest battlefield nasties. He remained single and presumably unattached. He made it to the rank of staff sergeant, and I guess his service was honorable, because I saw no evidence of blemishes, and he was immediately accepted for civilian employment at Fort Hood.

The interesting fact was that Clyde Wizner spent almost seventeen years performing civilian service before he mysteriously walked into his boss’s office and quit. He was only three short years from grabbing the golden ring of lifetime monthly checks and half-assed medical benefits. A cynical mind might suspect Clyde had found a better deal. I’m good at cynical.

I glanced inside his thick civilian personnel file and saw exactly what drew Mr. Eric Tanner to this guy. At Fort Hood, Mr. Wizner had worked in the Office of Post Operations, the nerve center of all that did and did not happen across the sprawling base. As long as he cloaked his nosiness, Clyde could access everything from range operations data to weapons shipments, to military police training activities.

I summarized this for Jennie, who commented, “Do you think it was Wizner who made the call?”

“Texan accent...right age...same crappy civilian employee attitude all soldiers know and love. Possibly.”

She and Rita exchanged glances again. Rita looked at me and commented, “Whatever you do, do
not
let on that you know or even
suspect
his identity. Understand?”

Jennie said, “She’s right, Sean. It would be like putting a gun to your own head.”

I drew a zipper across my lips.

“I’m serious. He’ll kill you.” Jennie added, “But, if the chance comes up, try to get a confirmation. Look and listen for hints or clues to his background and identity.”

“Don’t worry. Subtlety is my forte.”

Nobody seemed to buy that for some reason. Jennie explained, “This could be a huge break, Sean. Even if they somehow get away, it would give us a valuable trail to follow.”

“I understand.”

The phone rang.

It didn’t matter that we were expecting, even anticipating it. Literally, we all three ended up on our feet, staring down at the little cell phone lying on the long shiny conference table like a poisoned chalice. Rita smiled at me and said, “Last chance. You sure you wanta put your head in the lion’s mouth?”

I was not at all sure. The phone rang again. I lifted it up, cleared my throat, and said, “Drummond.”

“You got my money? All of it?” It was the same raspy bass voice, the same in-your-face tone.

“Fifteen suitcases full. But it’s not yours yet, pal.”

“Used and unmarked, right, boy?”

I looked at Jennie, who nodded. “I’m assured the money’s clean and untraceable.”

“Yer friends better be playin’ you straight. If not, somebody’s gonna be dead.”

“Hey, they’re federal employees. You can trust them.”

He laughed. “Okay...what’re you drivin’?”

“A big blue Suburban.”

“Got it. Now, here’s the way this goes down. There’s a parking garage on 13th and L Street. Third deck down. Fifteen minutes. Not a second later. Comprendo? Say it back to me.”

I repeated it, and he hung up.

I shoved back my chair and sprinted for the exit, and Jennie and Rita trotted alongside me. Rita gave me a big cotton-candy smile and assured me, “We’ll have five units inside that garage long before you get there. They’ll never get out.”

We were out in the parking lot, where a dark blue Suburban with the driver’s door opened was parked and idling. The back cargo area was loaded to the roof with large gray suitcases. I jumped into the driver’s seat and took a moment to familiarize myself with the controls. Rita pointed at a little button by the gearshift. “Push that to get the nitrous oxide to kick in.”

“Got it.”

Jennie grabbed my arm. I turned and looked at her. She informed me, “Rita and I will be in a command-and-control van a few blocks from you.” She leaned inside and kissed my cheek. She whispered, “Trust me. I’ll get you out of this. No matter what.”

“If you don’t, I’ll never forgive you.”

She laughed. It wasn’t a joke.

I closed the door and sped off. I glanced at my watch and noted it was 3:00
P.M
., not yet rush hour, though this was a city of government servants, who have a habit of knocking off a wee bit early. The traffic was not sparse, but neither was it overly heavy. I floored it and made good time to I-395, then the 14th Street Bridge, crossed over the muddy brown Potomac, and entered the District, where I was promptly stopped by a red light.

I pounded on the horn, and in return got angry stares and a few middle fingers. In the words of John F. Kennedy, Washington truly is a city with southern efficiency and northern charm. I honked again; nobody budged. I looked at my watch and began to wonder if the green light was broken. Then I glanced down and saw that some smart person had placed a blue bubble light on the floor by the passenger seat. I opened my window, stuck the light to the roof, and then studied the dash until I located a small toggle switch. I flipped it, a siren went off, and the cars ahead of me began scooting up onto the curbs, making a narrow passage. I moved ahead, cautiously looked both ways at the red light, and then pushed the nitrous oxide button and shot through the intersection like a rocket.

I should have been wearing a cape. Actually I should have been wearing a straitjacket. I proceeded north a few blocks, went right, and then left, and ended up on 13th, heading north toward L Street. I detected nobody following me, nobody to my flanks, nobody ahead. But if I took Rita at her word, every other person I saw was a Fed, and every third car was packed with flatfeet, armed, dangerous, and dedicated solely to the preservation of yours truly.

Directly ahead, I picked out the sign for L Street. I reached forward and flipped a switch, and the siren fizzled out. I saw a garage, and then...directly across the street, a
second
garage. It struck me that we might have a big problem here.

I looked left and right, and indeed, there were two garages. Definitely, both were on 13th and L; one had a sign reading “Partially Full,” whatever that means, but neither had a sign reading “Assholes in here.”

I had a sudden vision of being stuck down on the lower deck of the wrong parking garage, as Jason and his pals blew down the Treasury Building or something.

Less than two minutes left, according to my watch. It was a fifty-fifty chance. In fact, I was halfway through eeny-meeny-miney-moe when my phone rang.

I put it to my ear. A female voice said, “Damn. Confusin’, ain’t it, Drummond?”

I didn’t recognize the voice, but the shitkicker accent was familiar, as was the shitty attitude and the superior undertone, or overtone, or whatever. “Who’s this?”

“Shut up. Jus’ do what I tell ya. Keep drivin’.”

The phone remained at my ear as I drove. I could hear her breathing. Shit—again, I reminded myself to stop underestimating Jason Barnes. Back at 13th and L were two garages crawling with Bureau undercover types. Also, because I was being kept on the phone, I was out of contact with Jennie and Rita, who were probably experiencing heart attacks. A little late, it struck me that somebody should have thought about adding a second cell phone to my arsenal of goodies. The voice said, “Go left on M.”

Ahead I saw the sign for M Street, and I noted beside the entry another sign that indicated it was a one-way street. She either sensed or prejudged my hesitancy and said, “Jus’ friggin’ do it.”

Left it was. No oncoming traffic was headed in my direction, which was fortunate, as this big behemoth would have rolled over anything in its path.

About halfway down the block, she said, “On your right...pull into that alley.”

I turned into the passageway; it was narrow, essentially one-way, and I saw, about halfway down the alley, the rear of a parked gray cargo van. “I can’t make it through,” I informed her. “The path is blocked.”

“No shit. Put all them suitcases in the van. Hurry your ass.”

I pulled to a stop some three feet behind the van, stepped out, and quickly surveyed my environment. The van was a stretched-out Ford Econoline, designed for hauling cargo, with a completely enclosed back, and at the rear and on both sides the windows were darkly tinted.

I left my phone on the driver’s seat, dashed to the rear of the Suburban, and began yanking out suitcases crammed with money. Money, at least a lot of money, can be very heavy. My own money, for some reason, is always ridiculously light. Anyway, I was reduced to lugging one case at a time, requiring about three minutes to complete the task.

I looked around again and saw nobody. Not a soul. Still, I had that eerie feeling of being watched.

I felt a wash of relief, and at the same time, to be frank, a little let down. I had really gotten myself psyched up for this escapade, pumped up with good intentions and adrenaline. Now it was over, finis, end of story. I had thought my part was going to be more dramatic, or perhaps climactic, than a simple transfer from one vehicle to another. But Mother Luck seemed to be smiling upon Sean Drummond. The worst case hadn’t materialized, I wasn’t a hostage, I was still alive, I was free to go on my way.

Returning to the phone in the Suburban, I informed the lady, “I’m done.”

“No you ain’t.”

“I’m...what?”

“What are you waitin’ for, moron? Go drive the van.”

Well, it did seem too easy. I walked the driver’s side, opened the door, and noted that the key was in the ignition. I climbed in, started it up, and pulled forward. I got to the end of the alleyway and she said, “Go left, then take a left on 14th.”

As the lady ordered, I went left, then left.

After a moment, she said, “Hey, somethin’ I forgot to tell ya. Drive real safe, now. No accidents, and be sure to avoid any big potholes, y’hear.” She giggled. After a moment she added, “Thing is, remember when we said we had somebody lined up for the next kill?”

“In fact, I was thinking you could do us all a favor and kill yourself. What do you think?”

“Shut up, asshole. Guess what? Ten pounds of C4 and thirty sticks of dynamite are hardwired to the gas tank of that van. Point is...you’re the man, Drummond. We push a button and klablewie.”

“You...Listen, lady, that would be really stupid. I’ve got the money.”

“No, you’re stupid. It’s federal money. Plenty more where that came from.”

Shit.
“I...I understand.”

“You better. Now call yer friends. If all the helicopters ain’t outta the sky, and all the cop cars followin’ you ain’t gone in three minutes, you’re toast.”

She hung up.

I speed-dialed Jennie, who recognized my number and answered, “How you holding up, Sean?”