The Sentinel (23 page)

"I'll admit it strains the imagination."

Breckinridge nodded agreement, but she felt as if she was in a forest and had just heard something, someone walking among the trees, hidden in the darkness. It was there, but what was it?

"Have you ever seen Wintergreen out in the field like this before?" Breckinridge asked.

"Not on even the most serious internal investigations in cases involving the most credible Presidential threats. He's never been known for dirtying his hands. Not even before he was Director. He was always the one who arrived early at the press conference after the case was over."

"He's definitely taking a personal interest in this one, isn't he?"

"He must really believe Garrison is good for this. He must figure this case is different than the others."

"It's different, all right," Breckinridge said.

"What are you getting at?"

"I don't know. But there are a lot of funny things going on."

****

CHAPTER 19

GARRISON RESTED HIS elbows on the dining table as he waited for Flanagan to finish making a phone call. The call had been a welcome break from the questioning. During the last couple of hours, Flanagan had asked him every question anyone could possibly think of. Garrison was fed up and angry at the whole absurd process, and he has having trouble keeping his patience.

Flanagan said "Okay" to the party on the telephone. He set the receiver down, looked Garrison in the eye, and then smiled.

"Gotcha."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"A search team just found two pounds of C-4 in your apartment."

As Garrison tried to come to terms with what was happening, poisonous bile of anger rose in his throat and spread to his temples, to the top of his head.

"What the hell are you talking about'?"

"What do you want me to do, draw you a diagram?"

"Someone is trying to frame me. I ask you. What would be
my motive?
Why in God's name would I want to kill the President?"

"We have motive covered. We know about the two hundred thousand dollars transferred into your bank account from an offshore account. They have the bank ledger."

Garrison's hands felt cold. "If I was involved in a Presidential assassination plot, would I be dumb enough to put money into a
bank account?"

It was now clear. He, Garrison, was in the middle of a sophisticated assassination conspiracy. He was the scapegoat. Now it was no longer a matter of waiting for someone to clear him, of letting the system take its course. The cards were stacked and who knows how many Secret Service insiders were involved. Could Flanagan be one of them? He'd always been on the outskirts of the Secret Service, gravitating to the special quasi-legal SOT unit, and remaining there when he could have requested a transfer to a protective detail or some other normal line assignment.

Flanagan spoke. "Lee Harvey Oswald had photographs in his home of him posing with the rifle he used to assassinate President Kennedy. It's like this: You never thought anyone was going to find out. And the offshore bank is one of those that doesn't cooperate with the authorities. Someone opens an account, transfers money into your account, then closes the account."

"Flanagan, even you should realize that by focusing on me, the heat is being kept off the real conspirators. Don't you see? Whoever is responsible for the helicopter bombing is using me as a patsy. They must have decided it was worth two hundred grand to divert the investigation, so they dropped cash into my account. And they planted C-4 in my apartment. You can't just go along with this. Whether you realize it or not, you are playing a part in a frame-job that someone spent a lot of time planning."

"Let me tell you a little story," Flanagan said, scowling at him. "There once was a Secret Service Agent who stepped on his dick and ended up getting transferred off the Man's detail. The agent is resentful, confused, and angry with the Director, the President, and the system. So, the agent decides to do something about it - to get back at the system. He makes contact with the Aryan Disciples and offers some inside help to kill the Man. They like the idea, and the agent cuts himself a nice, fat deal. What do you think of that story, Garrison?"

"I think you are an imbecile and a donkey."

Flanagan tapped his pencil on the table. "Whoever hired you used you to plant the bomb, then sent a hit man to shut you up."

"Thirteen years as an agent, someone plants evidence in my apartment, and suddenly I'm a Presidential assassin? How utterly absurd."

"If the explosion had killed the President and Alexander had gotten away with killing you, it would have been the perfect caper. But you saw the hit coming. I owe you credit for that. But why sit there and take the rap for the goddamn Aryan Disciples? Why not take advantage of the fact that they screwed up? We can do a deal for your cooperation. You might be able to save your life. I ask you. Why take the fall? Why walk the plank for a group of terrorists?"

"I'm not taking the fall for anybody - not now or later. No matter how much phony evidence someone has dropped on your doorstep, I am innocent. I'm asking you to use your head. I'm asking you to believe me."

Flanagan smiled. "But I don't."

"Am I under arrest?"

It was no use talking. No use whatsoever. Flanagan was narrow-minded and stupid.

"The U.S. Attorney has ordered you held as a material witness under the authority of the Anti-Terrorism Statute. I'm sure you're aware that the AT statute-"

"I know as much about it as you do."

And he did. He knew that the statute had created a special federal court with the power to authorize U.S. agents to hold suspects without bail during "priority terrorism" investigations. Congress had passed the law as a reaction to the Aryan Disciples bombings of federal office buildings.

"Then why fight City Hall?" said Flanagan.

Garrison's lips and face tingled apprehensively. "I want to make a phone call."

"To?"

"That's none of your business."

"Under the AT statute, material witnesses aren't allowed to communicate with anyone until a U.S. District Judge gives his permission."

He knew Flanagan was right. "Then I want to talk to a judge."

"The AT judges aren't available. It's like this, Garrison. Either talk to me or I book you into the federal lockup. Unless you're ready to roll over, you're finished."

Garrison stared sullenly at the carpet. He wasn't going to be able to convince Flanagan of anything. The man's mind was made up. Garrison knew that he was the fall guy in a sophisticated plot under way to kill the President of the United States - a scheme that probably involved a Secret Service agent. The time for talking, for trying to reason, was over. Garrison had to change the course of events. No matter what the cost, he wasn't going to allow Flanagan to book him into the D.C. federal lockup. He wasn't going to sit in limbo hoping that some court-appointed attorney would clear him while Flanagan was out busily collecting other spurious information planted by the Aryan Disciples that could be used against him. That would allow the real conspirators to complete their assassination plans. In a wave of controlled fear and deadly resolve, Garrison made a decision he knew would change his life forever.

"Okay."

Flanagan looked genuinely surprised.
"Okay what?"

"I'm ready to make a statement," he said softly.

Barely able to conceal his satisfaction, Flanagan stood and walked to the door.

"Beatty, come down here!" There was the sound of footsteps. Beatty walked into the room. "Garrison is going to tell us his story and you're going to write up what he says."

"No problem."

Beatty pulled back a chair and sat across the table from Garrison.

"I'm thirsty," Garrison said.

"Get him a drink of water," Flanagan said.

Beatty got up, walked around the table to Garrison's right, and then pushed open a swinging door that led to the kitchen. The moment Garrison heard the sound of the water faucet he dove across the table and ratcheted his arm securely around Flanagan's neck. Flanagan made frantic grunting sounds. Adrenaline surged through Garrison's veins, and he held the chokehold and yanked Flanagan's SIG-Sauer from his cross-draw holster

"Don't make me do it,
" Garrison whispered, and pressed the barrel to Flanagan's right temple. Flanagan stopped struggling. Garrison released him, and motioned him back to his chair with the gun. Flanagan complied. "Move from the chair and I'll kill you."

Garrison aimed the gun at him under the table, and Flanagan returned to his chair.

The door opened. Beatty walked in carrying a glass of water.

Garrison swung the gun in his direction.

"Hands on top of your head." Beatty raised his hands, dropped the glass. "Face the wall."

Beatty turned. Garrison moved to him and took his gun. Shoving it in his waistband, he moved to the other side of the table, grabbed Flanagan by the collar, and shoved him toward Beatty.

He forced Flanagan and Beatty into the kitchen at gunpoint.

"We're just doing our job," Flanagan said as Garrison cautiously used handcuffs to lock both of them to the drainpipe under the sink.

"If I'm a real Presidential assassin, what do I have to lose?"

"Don't shoot, please."

Garrison took Beatty's car keys.

"Shut up."

Returning to the dining room, Garrison dropped Flanagan's gun on the table, grabbed Flanagan's briefcase, and departed from the kitchen door.

As he climbed into Flanagan's car, Garrison's temples were pulsing. He sped away, feeling as alone as he'd ever been in his entire life.

Garrison pulled into an office-building parking lot on L Street. He parked the car, turned off the engine, and used his cellular telephone to dial 911.

"Police emergency," a woman said.

"There are two people tied up in the kitchen at 829 Westboro Avenue, North West," Garrison said. "You'd better send a car."

"May I have your name, Sir?"

"Gilbert Flanagan."

Garrison pressed the OFF button.

Garrison opened Flanagan's briefcase, took out his gun, and reholstered it. He opened a folder in the briefcase containing a copy of the PRD file on Garth Alexander.

CONFIDENTIAL

NAME: Alexander, Garth Clement AKA: Ronnie Roberts, Carl Bronkirk, Ray Waters

ADDRESS: 29 Rue La Boetie, Paris

AFFILIATION: Aryan Disciples of the United States - associate

DESCRIPTION: Male, Caucasian, 6' 1", 210, 41 years old.

SCARS, MARKS, TATTOOS: Tattoo mermaid nailed to a cross covering full chest, panther on right upper arm, dog with army helmet on left forearm, "Corsican Boy" on upper back.

HANGOUTS: Paris Cocktail bars in Pigalle and Belleville quarter, Montreal: Chez Alain, in U.S.: The Scene and The Corral Club in Bakersfield, California

ASSOCIATES: Unknown

RELATIVES: None living