The President's Assassin (9 page)

I took a moment to study it, apparently a reproduction of the Web page under discussion. The background was pink, the print a crazy mixture of fonts, colors, and writing styles, reminiscent of one of those old-style circus posters, with floating balloons and clownish little figures dancing around the page. It certainly looked like a joke, or like somebody so contemptuous of this President that even an offer to assassinate him deserved to be treated facetiously.

I next read the offer, splashed in bold blue letters across the top: “KILL THE AMERICAN PRESIDENT AND EARN $100,000,000 UNTRACEABLE AMERICAN GREENBACKS.”

Beneath the heading was the inevitable small print, laying out the “contest” rules and requirements, of which there were three: The claimant had to communicate his plan in advance; a unique “killing signature” was required for authorship verification; and to receive the grand prize the claimant had to remain anonymous and above suspicion.

I looked up at Mort. “How do you communicate your intentions in advance?”

He bent forward and pointed at a line near the bottom. The line read, “[email protected].” Mort said, “That address.”

“And with that address can’t you find who’s behind this?”

“We tried. That address is linked to an anonymous e-mailer, and probably that one links to a daisy chain of five or ten more anonymous e-mailers.”

Mort somehow sensed I didn’t have a clue, and talked me through it. “It’s not all that sophisticated. The e-mail is automatically forwarded to an anonymous e-mailer—sort of like a blank mailbox—where it happens again, and again. Like jumping through ten black holes.” He directed my attention to the bottom of the page where seven or eight languages were listed—Russian, Spanish, Arabic, even Yiddish. Mort said, “Click your cursor on one of those, and it directed you to the same Web page, only it was in that language.”

“We’re talking past tense?”

Phyllis said, “The Web site was closed two days after the Al Jazeera broadcast.”

Mort commented, “Al Jazeera’s news manager told us they were tipped off by a phone call. Wouldn’t say who. Can you believe that asshole quoted me the First Amendment?” He looked annoyed.

I asked, “Who shut down the site?”

“The owner.”

“Do we know why?”

Phyllis looked at Mort and said, “The prevailing theory at the time was that he pulled the plug before the joke caught up with him.”

“What’s the current feeling?”

Phyllis regarded the Web page. “It’s possible he got one or two viable offers. Probably there was an exchange of e-mails, the prospective killers forwarding their plan and the recipient somehow verifying he had the money. It’s also reasonable to assume that some kind of arrangement to get the reward was worked out. Of course, we have no idea what.”

“I see.”

Phyllis leaned toward me. “But I think we’d all agree that one hundred million is a large...well, an almost incredible figure.” She added, “We limited the knowledge as much as possible. The Secret Service was informed, of course, and the White House.”

Mort added, “And don’t assume it’s Arab money. Could be a pissed-off Saudi prince, Colombian or Mexican drug lords, a foreign government, some U.S. billionaire who finds this President politically disagreeable...” He frowned and let the list of disturbing possibilities drift off.

Phyllis informed me, “Certainly you can appreciate why we’ve tried to keep this under a tight lid. This bounty...well, it’s an almost insurmountable temptation, isn’t it? That kind of money can fuel a lot of wicked ambitions.”

True enough. I don’t believe
everybody
has a price, but a hundred million bucks can leave stretch marks on a lot of consciences. I mean, there are guys in New York who, for a few thousand Georges, will pump ten slugs into whoever you name. For a hundred million they’ll wipe out Manhattan, with Queens thrown in for a bonus. But back to the discussion, I said, “It smells like a hoax.”

She stared at me a moment then replied, “Drummond, you might find this hard to believe, but you are not the only bright person in this organization. Consider this—what matters is not what you or we believe but what others believe.”

She had a point. I suggested, “This might be a good time to ask other international intelligence agencies what they know about this.”

“Catch up. An hour ago, a message went to all our station chiefs to visit their counterparts and ask around. Given time differences, this kind of sweep normally takes about twelve hours to complete.”

“And I’ll be informed, right?”

“Trust me.”

No comment.

There was a knock at the door, and it opened. Jennie stood in the doorway and asked, “Can I steal Sean for a moment?”

Nobody seemed to mind, so I stepped out and followed her through the maze of partitions to a side room allocated as her temporary office.

Directly outside her office and behind a gray metal desk sat an elderly woman, heavyset, with frizzy brown hair surrounding a face that was round and cherubic, like a jolly, chubby angel. We paused momentarily for Jennie to introduce me to Elizabeth, her executive assistant.

Elizabeth looked a little frazzled and clearly was not enjoying her new and uncertain environment. We exchanged pleasantries, then she asked me, “Where do I get paper and supplies in this madhouse?”

“Got me.”

“How do I get my phone connected?”

“Plug it into the wall?”

Elizabeth pointed at the wall. “There is no phone socket out here.”

“Good point.”

“So...?”

I shrugged.

Elizabeth said, “You work here, don’t you?”

Jennie informed her, “He’s my partner for this case. But he’s a typical male, Elizabeth.”

For some reason Elizabeth found this very funny. Personally, I considered this remark both rude and sexist, rooted as it was in an old, false, and demeaning stereotype. I suggested to Elizabeth, “See Lila out front. She knows everything.”

As we entered Jennie’s office, she looked at me and said, “Okay, we’ve had a couple of breaks.”

“Go on.”

“We found the limo.”

“And did we find Larry?”

“Larry, too. The limo was discovered in the woods, maybe three miles outside Culpeper, Virginia. Larry Elwood was in the front seat.”

“Should I be an optimist?”

“It wouldn’t look right on you.”

“Right.”

“Unfortunately, the car and Larry were incinerated.”

Unfortunate for us, but even more unfortunate for Larry, I thought. Yet for some reason I was not surprised by this revelation. “Okay, details.”

“The car was spotted by a helicopter from the Culpeper Sheriff’s Department. The pilot saw the smoke, called it in, and the local fire department promptly responded. Everything was already toast.”

“Fast fire.”

“Very fast. The car, the car’s interior, and Elwood were soaked with gasoline. But Elwood was beyond caring, having already been shot in the head several times. Incendiary grenades were used for ignition, at least five, some taped to the underside, along the gas tank, all rigged to explode simultaneously. This wasn’t amateur work.”

“Eliminating all forensic traces and evidence, right?”

“And our key suspect.”

“So Larry’s probably not an accomplice.”

“Don’t be hasty. Could be you’re right, and he and the car were kidnapped. That would assume the killers knew the car type and plate numbers, as well as Larry’s route and morning routine. Leading back to our insider theory. Or could be Larry was part of the scheme, they recognized he was an obvious lead and decided to eliminate him before he compromised them. In that case, they’re really brutal bastards.”

I thought the morning murders already established that.

“Another thing,” she continued. “You recall that Peterson ordered Chuck Wardell to give us the names of everybody involved in the Hawk’s security detail?”

“Okay.”

“They maintain three shifts for the Hawk’s residence. The shift we found this morning—the dead shift—that’s the B shift. The C shift was supposed to come on duty at 1300 hours. They all showed.”

“And the A shift?”

“D shift. There’s no A shift—don’t ask.” So I didn’t and she continued, “We’ve accounted for everybody but one agent. Guy named Jason Barnes. Since he went off duty yesterday at 1300 hours, nobody’s heard from him.”

“Maybe he left town.”

“Maybe. His supervisor’s next door. I thought you might want to be there.”

“Good. Let’s talk to him.”

We proceeded to the office next door, where Agent Mark Kinney was seated at a table swilling a diet Pepsi. He was roughly my age, bony-faced, dark-haired, retreating hairline, fit, and from all outward appearances, an everyday Joe, which I’m sure fit nicely with his job description.

As we entered the room he looked up with an expression I judged to be slightly pissed off and distrustful. I know that look. I get it a lot.

Jennie handled the introductions as we fell into chairs directly across from Agent Kinney. We all shook hands. Jennie smiled and in a friendly tone advised him not to regard this session as a threatening or antagonistic interrogation. She suggested he should look upon this as simply an amiable and innocent background chat between three federal officers.

Kinney polished off his Pepsi without a word.

They then chitchatted about topics small and large—family, Washington, and why Dallas always kicks the crap out of the Redskins. So we learned that Agent Kinney had a wife and 2.3 kids, twelve years in the Secret Service, he couldn’t wait to get out of house duty and back on the travel squad, and other useless trivia. This is called establishing rapport and loosening up the subject. I call it wasting time.

There are two broad schools of thought regarding interrogation methods. The one in vogue down in Quantico these days is called, I think, the Lawrence Welk technique. Klieg lights, rubber truncheons, and demeaning or harsh questions are passé. Play soft music, avoid frightening gestures, establish a collegial relationship, and be sure to treat the target with the same courtesy and respect with which you’d like to be treated. If I understand this method correctly, the subject eventually thinks he’s in a dentist’s chair and opens wide.

A lot of experts and supposed studies advocate this technique. In my view, if you want to save time and get the truth, a friendly knee in the nuts is always a useful way to start off. Metaphorically, of course. Except sometimes.

Anyway, the run-up to this soft sell takes a while, but this guy made his living guarding windbags, and he showed the patience of Job until Jennie, in a tone meticulously modulated to be nonthreatening and nonpatronizing, mentioned, “Listen, we’ve managed to contact everybody in your team except”—she glanced at her notepad—“except Agent Jason Barnes.”

“Jason? Well, that’s odd.”

“Yes. Isn’t it?”

“Yeah...it really is. You’ve tried his home number?”

“A team was even dispatched to his home...in Springfield, right?” Kinney nodded, and Jennie informed him, “He’s not there. Nor is his car.”

“I’ve got his cell number and pager number in my pocket. Maybe if—”

“Ditto. We’re getting his electronic answering service.”

“Well...hmmm. That doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe there’s a simple explanation. Could he have left town?”

“Jason wouldn’t...I mean, it’s SOP...He’d have to inform me, and it wouldn’t be like—”

“But he’s single, isn’t he?”

“Yes...but—”

“So it’s springtime. Maybe he’s shacked up with somebody.”

He chuckled. “Not a chance.”

“Why? He’s a normal, healthy heterosexual, isn’t he?”

“Listen, Jason Barnes is so clumsy with the ladies, it’s laughable. Also he’s a very devout Christian. I’d bet my month’s pay he’s not shacked up.”

Wisely, Jennie changed tacks, and put the onus on Kinney. She smiled pleasantly and said, “Uh...well, look, I’m shooting in the dark here. Help me get to know Jason.”

“Get to— Wait a minute. Is he suspected of something?”

Clearly, Agent Kinney knew this wasn’t a friendly session, and clearly he knew Jason Barnes was possibly a big problem for him. He was Barnes’s boss, and if his trusted subordinate had helped whack the man and wife they were guarding, in addition to four of his comrades-in-arms, Agent Kinney was going to have an ugly notation on his next evaluation.

Also I thought Kinney was probably a decent guy and even a good leader. Displaying loyalty down is always an admirable trait in a boss—except now.

So I lied. “We need to ask everybody if they saw anything suspicious over the past few days. Maybe if we knew a little about Barnes it would help us track him down.”

Kinney looked at Jennie, then at me. He said, “Check his file.”

“It’s on the way over,” Jennie replied. “But we’re in a bit of a hurry here. Give us a shortcut.”

I thought, for a brief moment, that Kinney was going to mumble into his cuff link, “Agent in peril...send help.”

Instead he said, “All right. For starters, he’s incredibly bright. Grew up in Richmond. Father’s a judge...I think, a federal judge. Jason’s a VMI grad, and he spent three years as a Marine infantry lieutenant. Excellent record as a Marine. Excellent record as an agent. Personally and professionally, the guy’s clean as a whistle.”

In fact, Mr. Kinney’s brief biography exposed more about Jason Barnes than he probably knew or possibly intended. As an Army brat and as a soldier, I had several times lived or been stationed in the South. When I get tired, my childhood drawl sometimes slips through, and I still pick politely at corn bread and pecan pie, which I hate, but you don’t insult the natives.

Broadly speaking, the South of my childhood produced two types of white southern male. First was the shitkicker, product of an agrarian culture, pickup trucks, and Waylon Jennings; if they learned how to add and spell, they aspired to attend Ole Miss, or Bear Bryant U, where pigskin, beer tasting, and frat partying were regarded as serious, taxing majors.

And second, the southern aristocracy and pretenders thereof, who sent their kids to old-line, top-drawer schools like UVA, Duke, William and Mary, and VMI, to be followed by at least a few years of military service, which they were expected to regard as part privilege and part obligation. I had worked with and for a number of these southern gentlemen turned officers, and it appeared Jason Barnes fell into this more exalted category.