The President's Assassin (38 page)

“There are times when we do it that way.”

“Why wasn’t it done that way
this
time?”

“Tactical judgment.”

“I see. Well...what made this assault so different that it was decided to deviate from procedure?”

She matter-of-factly replied, “We have a standard template for making these calls. Assessment of the criminal mindset, prior experience with the perps, an evaluation of risk regarding our hostage—all these factors are carefully weighed and considered. That last point is always preeminent. The hostage is always our priority.”

I think she knew where I was going with this, and I don’t think she liked it. I informed her, “I can see where an undeclared assault might be justified, but here’s where I get confused. The Hostage Rescue Team managed to physically separate the hostage from the kidnappers. The Texans left me and Barnes behind and fled to the bedrooms. Yet the assault continued unabated. Why?”

After a moment, Rita said, “I make it a practice to never second-guess the decision of the team leader in contact. You should do the same. Those people saved your ass.”

“And I’m not ungrateful. But you see, Rita, I was surprised when the team rushed right past me. Nobody paused to check on me, untie me, or even evacuate me. Jason Barnes was equally ignored.”

She sort of shrugged. “I’m sure the team felt you were safe and the prisoner was secured. As I said, hostage safety is priority number one, followed by apprehension of the suspects.”

“What were the team’s orders?”

“What I stated. Secure the hostage, neutralize, then apprehend the suspects.”

“Their rules of engagement?”

“Use reasonable force. But this was an extremis situation, obviously. The killers were heavily armed, and I shouldn’t have to remind you of all people, they were vicious murderers. If you’re implying we sent that team in to assassinate those people, you’re wrong.”

“Good.” I examined Rita’s face. “I’d really be bothered to learn the team was sent in on a mission of vengeance.”

She did not reply to that point.

I continued, “Joan Townsend’s death doesn’t sit well with me. I’m sure it sat even less well with the men and women of the Bureau. I believe down to my soul that Hank, MaryLou, and Clyde deserved to die. But they deserved to end their lives on an electric chair after attempting to lie their way out of it, the God-given right of every American.” I paused for emphasis and added, “I would not like to believe I was no better than Jason Barnes, that I was part of a vendetta.”

She turned and looked at the far wall for a moment. Eventually she said, “Well, shit happens. You know what they say.”

“No, Rita, what do they say?”

“Live by the sword, die by the sword.”

After a moment I asked, “Is Jennie’s ass hanging out?”

“Not at all. She made a procedural error, running in there that way. But she put only
herself
at risk. The Bureau makes allowances for these things.”

This was news to me.

Rita continued, “She swore an oath to a volunteer hostage and risked her life to honor it. Actually, she’s a big hero now. She saved your ass, and our bacon. The Bureau don’t forget those things.”

“What about shooting Jason?”

“Yeah, there’ll obviously be an investigation on that. But with all the smoke and dust from the blast, Jennie said she couldn’t clearly observe her target. The HRT guys already gave statements that confirm how hard it was to see. The team leader said the thermal sensors were the only things that saved them from the same mistake. She just saw his face peering at her through the smoke and confusion, and she fired.”

“If you need another statement to support that, let me know.”

Rita nodded. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.”

I stood up and we began walking.

She said, “I never worked with Margold before. But you know what? She’s pretty good, a straight shooter.”

“Bad word choice.”

She laughed. “Right.”

CHAPTER THIRTY - TWO

A
S YOU
’
D EXPECT
,
THE CASE DOMINATED THE HEADLINES FOR THE NEXT
week. A lot of good people were dead, and a lot of important people needed to be buried with ceremonies appropriate to their fame and station in life. The city, and the entire country, had been caught in an emotional vise, and the aftershock was a huge sigh of relief, accompanied by the usual wave of prurient exposure.

So the Bureau dished out the story in dribs and drabs, a smorgasbord of the good with the bad; of course it was hard to recognize the bad after all the verbs, pronouns, and facts were adjusted and twisted a bit. It’s true that knowledge is power, especially when dispensed selectively.

I tend to be cynical about these things, for some reason.

On a happier note, my name and my role in the affair were kept out of it. When you sign on with the Agency—even as a loaner—you are guaranteed complete, ironclad anonymity. This works really well if you owe a lot of people money.

As you might further expect, the White House did its part to make this thing smell less like feces and more like roses. I particularly enjoyed watching Mrs. Hooper on one of those cable news talk shows, like Fox, I think. She recounted the unremitting pressure the President was under as the murderous toll mounted, and his overwhelming sadness since several of the dead were people he knew intimately, friends and colleagues. She described in tender detail how he reached out to their families and so forth. This part was both moving and touching. Maybe this part was even true.

Then, in all sincerity, she said to the anchor, “So the President pulled me into his office. This was the morning Mrs. Townsend was murdered. I’d...well, I’d never seen the President so calm...so committed...so...presidential. He said the killers had to be stopped. The American people
had
to be protected, no matter how drastic the action, no matter the cost to him politically. He told me to suggest to the FBI something entirely unorthodox. He said we had to arrange a trap.” And so on.

Not exactly how I remembered it. On the other hand, it sounded better than the truth.

I was a little unhappy when the President’s approval rating bounced up ten points, for, as I mentioned, I’m not his biggest fan. On the other hand, the guy going after his job looked like an even bigger putz, so maybe it was a wash.

Anyway, the President never called to thank me, and Rita never bought me the promised steak dinner. See how quickly they forget.

I should add that Phyllis gave me a week off, for mental recovery, she said. In fact, her final words to me were, “But I don’t mean that literally. I don’t really want you returning
exactly
the way you were. Understand?”

I understood.

So I lounged around my apartment for a week, read a few trashy novels, bought some new underpants, cheated my way through a bunch of
Times
crossword puzzles, threw water balloons off my porch, and got bored out of my wits. Mostly, I waited for Jennie to call. She never did.

For some reason, I didn’t call her either.

Okay, I called her office, three times. Elizabeth promised to give her the messages, but Jennie never returned my calls. Maybe she failed to get my messages. Maybe not.

So there I was, at the end of the week, walking through the entrance of Ferguson Home Security, mentally rested, physically healed, emotionally a wreck.

Lila was seated behind her desk, wearing a hot pink sweater that showed great cleavage. I didn’t even peek, or at least, I didn’t get caught. She smiled at me and said, “Welcome back. You’re late.”

I wasn’t in a smiley mood. “I wouldn’t be here at all if I hadn’t run out of coffee at home.”

“Nice suit, incidentally.”

“Thank you.”

“No, I mean it. You look really...good in a suit.”

What the...? Following her eyes to the far corner of the room, there hung a life-size blow-up of an idiot in nothing but his Hanes briefs standing beside an armored van. Attached was a banner reading, “Major Underpants Strikes Again.” Somebody had a sense of humor.

I smiled at Lila.

She smiled back.

I looked Lila in the eye and said, “Get rid of that picture.”

“On eBay...tonight.” She added, “By the way, three guests are waiting for you in the conference room.”

So off I went to the conference room, where indeed, three men in blue and gray suits and Phyllis with a pissed-off expression awaited. Phyllis tapped her watch and said, “You’re late.”

“Punctuality is the habit of the weak-minded.”

“I think you mean punctuality is the habit of those who want to keep their jobs.”

“Exactly.”

She introduced me to the three gentlemen, named Larry, Moe, and Shemp. Or perhaps they were named Larry, Bob, and Bill. I wasn’t in a particularly charitable mood.

Larry flashed an FBI shield and beamed a pseudo-smile. Bill and Bob shuffled their feet. Nobody mentioned it, but something in their shifty manner suggested they were from the Bureau’s equivalent of internal investigations.

This was better than a congressional subcommittee, but not much.

Larry appeared to be the ringleader—he invited me to sit, and he informed me that his team was cleaning up some loose ends and probing a few unresolved matters.

Nobody read me my rights, which is always a good sign. Larry glanced at Bob, and Bob put a tape recorder on the table. Bill reached forward and turned on the recorder. I’m not making this up.

Larry informed me, “This is an official testimony. Be accurate and truthful, as best you can. Speak clearly. Now recount for us your involvement in the case involving Jason Barnes.”

So I did.

About two dozen times, Larry, or Bob, or Bill interrupted to ask me to clarify a certain point or elaborate on some event. Three times Bob changed tapes, and Bill turned the recorder on and off each time. Seriously, I’m not making this up. But they were good listeners, and they had done their homework and seemed to be up to speed on what occurred, because they knew the right questions to ask and didn’t waste too much of my time.

They seemed particularly interested in who killed whom, so I related what MaryLou told me and I hypothesized that—by process of elimination—the rest were murdered by Clyde or Hank. I shared my view that I didn’t think Jason pulled any triggers himself.

Bob confided that in fact, ballistics comparisons from the weapons found on the bodies at the townhouse confirmed this guess. Yet there remained open questions about who fired the LAW on the beltway and who pushed the button that exploded the bomb that killed Joan Townsend, as though it really mattered.

But these people wrote reports for a living, and their lives were dedicated to leaving no blank spaces on any form. So they batted around a few theories, and I listened politely, without comment, until we got down to the nutcutting, which turned out to be not an inappropriate metaphor.

Larry said to me, “So when you arrived at the townhouse, only the red pickup was present. Correct?”

“No, the yellow pickup was also present. I was driving it.”

Larry didn’t like being corrected and snapped, “That’s what I meant.”

“Then say what you mean.” I didn’t like Larry very much.

Bob asked me, “Do you know where the black pickup was? The one driven by Clyde Barnes?”

“Why?”

“If you don’t mind, we’ll ask the questions.”

“Bob, I do mind. If you want me to keep answering your questions, you’ll answer my questions.”

Bob leaned toward me and said, “I’m not here to cure your curiosity, Major. We can always compel your testimony.”

“How, Bob?”

“What?”

“I don’t work at your Bureau. How will you compel my testimony?”

“We have our ways. Answer my question,” Bob insisted. Incidentally, I didn’t really like Bob either.

Larry again asked if I knew where the black pickup went after we departed the shopping center and before Clyde returned to the townhouse.

I replied, “Larry, I’m developing a serious memory lapse.”

Bill appeared to be the designated good cop. He said, very amiably, “All right, Sean. Some of the money seems to be missing.”

“
Seems
to be missing?”

Bill smiled unctuously. “Hey...you got me there, didn’t you? All right—it
is
missing.”

“How much is missing, Bill?”

Time for Bob, and he said, “None of your business.”

“It is now.”

Larry felt the need to assert himself. “Drummond, I don’t like your attitude. I’ll remind you again, this is an official investigation.”

When that didn’t seem to work, Larry turned to Phyllis and said, “Reason with him.”

Phyllis smiled at Larry and replied, “I’ve tried from the day he started working here. The only advice I can offer is to answer his questions. He sometimes responds well to reciprocity.”

Larry, Bob, and Bill looked a little baffled by this insight. I’m sure Bureau employees were scared out of their wits by these guys. I’m sure Larry, Bob, and Bill asked, and everybody popped out answers. I was just as sure I’d be an idiot to answer another question without knowing what this was about.

It was Bill’s turn again. He said, “About twelve million is missing.”

“About?”

He smiled again. “Twelve and a half, to be precise.”

I remarked, “Precision is always good, right, Bill? I mean, what if you guys had identified yourselves as internal investigations or whatever you are, and what if I had been distrustful of you right from the start. What if I knew this was an interrogation, not a debriefing. That wouldn’t have been good, would it, Bill?”

Bob said, “You’d be well-advised to can the sarcasm, Drummond.”

Phyllis interjected, “He can’t. It’s like Tourette’s syndrome. It just spills from his lips, an uncontrollable river.”

I smiled at Phyllis. She smiled back. I really liked her. I think she was getting used to me.

Bob and Larry thought Bill had the best chance with me, and he took over. But I didn’t really like Bill either, to be honest. He was the sneaky type. Bill said, “Help us determine where the money went. You told us it was loaded in the back of Clyde Wizner’s truck when he departed the shopping center. Between our discussions with Agent Sanchez and with you, we’ve managed to time out approximately how long it took each pickup to arrive at the townhouse. You arrived with MaryLou Johnson, you said, perhaps ten to twelve minutes behind Hank Mercer. Correct?”