The Export

  That’s good.

  “I can’t tell you why I need this, or how I know. And you can’t tell anyone else,” Matt said quietly. “This is a matter of national security, Sam, and I’m not kidding.” He paused. “But I need toxicology run on her.”

  Sam’s surprise showed with the tilt of his head and the curious expression on his face. “Matt, she–”

  Matt cut him off with an abrupt wave of his hand. A knock at the doorway let both men know the implied need for secrecy was being blown with every passing moment. It was the coroner. He wanted to know if there was anything else or if he could leave. Having known Coleman for years and of the heart disease she had kept from everyone but a few in the medical community there and in Washington, he had ruled her death came as a result of an apparent heart attack. No need for an autopsy, he said he wanted to leave his friend at peace.

  “No, we’re good here, Lou,” the sheriff said. “I’ll call the funeral home and get them headed this way.”

  The coroner looked to Matt, expressed his condolences once more, and then excused himself. Matt walked to the window and watched the man head for his black SUV, parked on the gray stones in the driveway below. As the coroner drove away, the ambulance crew walked out of the house, climbed into their rig, and followed his lead.

  Damn it!

  Matt walked to the doorway and listened. He could hear the security team and the late DNI’s staff discussing next steps and how much longer they would need to remain here. Matt turned to Sam and asked him to come downstairs with him and the others, where they asked everyone to gather in the great room of the home. His aunt had loved spending time before the fire there. Even without a flame and despite the size of the room, capped by the arched roof and treated logs, the space was warm and inviting, much different from the modern condo she kept in Georgetown back east.

  “As most of you know,” Matt began, “my aunt was a very private person. She wanted to be cremated without any fanfare and I intend to follow her wishes.”

  Most of his audience nodded in agreement, but no doubt had thought this day would come much later, way into her retirement.

  “The sheriff and I are going to wait here for the funeral director to show up, so I’d like to ask that you all wrap up whatever you need to, remove anything that is intelligence related, and then leave her and this place in peace.”

  He studied the dozen faces around him as he spoke, watching for a sign, anything to indicate something sinister, suspicious, or perhaps guilt. He saw nothing, he read nothing out of the ordinary, and to his dismay, was disappointed.

  Something’s not right here, Matt told himself, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. He was exhausted. It had been one hell of a week, but he was missing something and he knew it – and that pissed him off more than anything.

  It only took a half-hour for both teams to pack up, collect what was in the protocol, say their good-byes, and then drive off in their SUVs. The government jet that had brought them out west would fly them back to Washington straight away.

  Matt watched as the dust from the last vehicle began to settle. Then he heard another vehicle approaching, the gravel road grinding beneath it.

  It was the silver hearse from funeral home. Too fast, Matt thought, I need more time!

  Without waiting to greet the arriving car, Matt walked quickly back into the house to ask the sheriff for help.

  “What’s up?” Sam asked.

  Matt placed his index finger to his lips, asking for quiet. He walked past the sheriff, indicating he should follow him into the kitchen. There, with the water faucet turned wide open, Matt stood closer to Sam and told him what he needed.

  “I can’t tell you why, like I said before, but I need to have a lab run toxicology on her. Unfortunately, the damn EMTs left before I could steal a few syringes.”

  “But–” Sam began.

  Matt shook his head. “I’ll tell you when I can, I promise, but it’s best you stay clear of this for now. Just help me – I need to slow this down until I can get a sample.”

  The funeral director was on the front porch now and used the massive knocker on the solid oak front door to let them know.

  “Shit!” they said in unison.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Sam stated. “Let him in, and we’ll ask him to wait a few minutes until you and I have had a moment to say our last good-byes.” Sam reached over and shut off the faucet. “Meet me upstairs so we can say good-bye together one last time.”

  Matt smiled. The two of them had gotten into all sorts of trouble back in their heydays at the ranch, much to Coleman’s entertainment but more often to her consternation. Matt knew he could count on Sam.

  As they greeted the funeral director and asked for a few more minutes before he went to work, Matt’s phone began to vibrate. When he pulled it from his pocket, to his surprise, the caller ID read three words: THE WHITE HOUSE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Matt showed the phone to Sam. As he engaged the call, he took the steps up toward the master bedroom while Sam headed out to his patrol vehicle. The funeral director, aware that he was in what had been the home of a very important government official, was prepared to sit and wait for whatever the family needed of him.

  Matt stopped short of the bedroom door and took the call in the hallway. “Hello,” he answered.

  “This is the White House operator. Please hold for the president.”

  Seconds later he heard a very familiar voice on the other end of the line. He’d received calls from the White House before but never one like this.

  “Matt, this is the president.” He was impressed. Matt had been to the White House on tours and then in the company of FBI officials and eventually with Coleman posing as an aide. But he had never been to the Oval Office and most certainly had never taken a call from this or any other president.

  “I just wanted to express my sympathy to you on Helene’s passing,” he stated. His aunt had a lot of friends but also a lot of enemies. For this man to take the time to have Matt found and reach out to him made him feel good, made him feel good for his aunt.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” was the best Matt could muster. This man may have indeed appointed her, but it had been more of a political move, making a stand against his enemies, both foreign and domestic, much like everything else in Washington. He had sent a message that there was a new sheriff in town.

  “She was really something special to work with,” the president continued. “I don’t know if it was growing up in the Wild West or the wilds of Washington politics, but Helene was a tough old goat, and I was proud to have known her.”

  “Thank you again, Mr. President.”

  “I understand you’re still working with us as a contractor in the national security field,” the president continued. “Next time you are back in D.C., I want you to contact my office. We’ll have you in to talk about a few things if that is of interest to you.”

  “That would be fine, sir,” Matt replied. “The funeral director is here now, Mr. President. If it’s okay with you, I’ll say good-bye. Thank you again, Mr. President.”

  Before he had time to process what had just transpired, Sam came up the steps and waved for Matt to join him back in Coleman’s bedroom. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a syringe, and handed it to him.

  “Narcan!” Matt exclaimed in a whisper, hushing himself at the surprise. “You guys all carry these Naloxone syringes for the opioid overdosers – Brilliant!”

  They both almost high-fived each other but then remembered where they were and who was lying in front of them on the floor.

  Matt unwrapped the plastic bag the medicine syringe came in and squirted the material into the bathroom sink. He drew the plunger back under the running water to rinse the syringe capsule a few times.

  When he returned, he looked at Sam and stood quietly for a moment. Raising his hand, he handed the syringe to the sheriff and asked, “Can you do it?”

  It took a moment but Sam o
bliged, and Matt walked to the window, overlooking the Tetons in the distance while the sheriff drew the blood sample Matt would take back to Washington. He still didn’t know who he could trust or what had happened here, but Dale was someone he could go to when he was in trouble. One of only two friends, now maybe three, he could trust with his life.

  Once Sam finished, he capped the needle, wrapped the syringe in a washcloth from the bathroom, and handed it to Matt, who smiled. He tossed the cloth back in the bathroom. “I’ll have a bulge in my pants if I stuff that in them,” he whispered in a laugh.

  Then his mood changed, and so did Sam’s. It really was time now to say good-bye to this smart, funny, loving, caring woman. They did so, very quietly, before taking the stairs together and letting the funeral director know it was time for his team to take her.

  “I’ll come down in an hour or so to give you all her info and arrange for everything,” Matt told the man.

  “No need to, Matt, “ the director responded. “She pre-arranged everything over a year ago. She said she never knew where in the world you’d be, so she laid everything out in detail so you wouldn’t have to. She’ll be cremated according to her wishes, and you can pick up the remains, or we can deliver them to you tomorrow if that’s what you would prefer.” Matt smiled, as did Sam. That was the way she did things, so she wouldn’t be a bother.

  “That’s fine, I’ll call to let you know.” Matt shook the director’s hand, and then he and Sam walked through the house, out onto the rear deck, and waited patiently for the man and his assistant to do their job. Once the director came through to let them know he was finished and they were leaving, Matt led Sam into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out two beers.

  “Tonight, let’s toast her memory.”

  Sam protested in a whisper, waved off the beer, and turned the water spigot on again. “I’m still working, and you need to get into town and get that sample mixed with preservatives.”

  “They still have the lab on Main Street?”

  “Yes, but they’ll be closing in two hours,” Sam said as he checked his watch. “Will you need any help with a diversion, or do you still have what it takes to steal a few syringes?”

  Matt smiled but then led Sam back outside. “I sure can,” he answered. “Once I get that done, I’ll come back here to see if they’ve left any bugs so we can stop whispering.”

  “There’s really something going on here, isn’t there?”

  Matt didn’t answer, but Sam probably knew him well enough and also knew of his role as an operative for the intelligence services. Coleman had shared that information with him, as much as she could, years before.

  The two shook hands and agreed to meet later that night for dinner in town. After Sam drove off, Matt walked the house, room by room, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The domestic and ranch staff had been given the rest of the day off but would return the next morning to clean up after the men and women who had slept there during their stay. They’d want to make the home like new for its new owner.

  One ranch hand, a 25-year-old retired Marine who also grew up in the area, would remain on-site to feed the horses and keep an eye on things. Despite the injuries he’d suffered in Iraq to his mind and to both his legs, Coleman had told Matt this young Travis was trustworthy and capable and that’s all she had needed to say. He’d keep his distance from Matt and the main house out of respect and remain in his cabin near the horses. The staff all knew Matt and were aware that Coleman had left him the property, all 111 acres of it. They probably knew its value, too – something just over $34 million.

  Setting the alarm and locking the heavy oak door behind him, Matt sat down in his rental car, felt for the syringe to make sure it was still safely in his pocket, and began to drive down the gravel road toward town.

  He stopped, watching a small group of elk walk across the large field to his right and wondered aloud, “Why the hell would he have referred to her as an old goat?”

  The reference from the last operation Matt had been assigned in Russia, the ring on the wrong finger, a call from the White House, and a blood sample that might answer the most important question. Had someone just killed the nation’s director of national intelligence and done it on U.S. soil, in the security of her own home?

  Before Matt had made it into town, Sam gave him a call to let him know that he had already stopped at the firehouse and raided an ambulance’s stash of syringes and sample retainers. They agreed to meet out on Route 191, in the parking lot across from the National Elk Refuge.

  “This feels like a drug deal,” Sam laughed as he handed the white plastic bag of medical supplies through his patrol vehicle window to Matt, who smiled but didn’t comment.

  “Thanks, Sam, see you tonight,” was the best he could muster.

  In no time Matt was back at the Coleman ranch, disarmed the alarm system and went into the powder room, just inside the front entrance, to split the blood sample from the Narcan syringe into two sterile test tubes. They contained preservatives that would help maintain the material’s integrity. The first he would ship in the morning via FedEx to the FBI headquarters in D.C. The second he would hold onto until he could get it back to Washington and personally hand it to Dale if needed. Either way, she would have it logged in as a John Doe blood specimen and have it analyzed quickly by the FBI lab.

  Once the stoppers were placed on the test tubes, Matt shook them for ten seconds to ensure the preservatives were mixed as well as possible. He then went into the kitchen and placed one tube inside the refrigerator. The other he hid behind a cookbook above the sink. As long as he kept the domestic staff out of the fridge until he headed home, he knew, or at least hoped, it would be safe.

  Having had just a few hours of sleep the night before, and been unable to sleep on the flights he took to get there, Matt chugged a bottle of water and then lay down on one of the massive brown leather sofas that bookended the living room fireplace. Seconds later, his eyes opened. He got up and reset the alarm system, monitoring the doors and windows but allowing motion within the home.

  He then walked into Coleman’s study, looked around, and smiled at the photos she had mounted of the two of them on the wall across from her desk. He walked behind it and pulled open the second drawer down on the left side. Under a blank yellow legal pad, a simple cover, he found her Colt 45 semi-automatic, the weapon her Marine father had carried during World War II in the South Pacific. He remembered how her security team had always teased her, encouraging her to retire what they joked was an antique and get something lighter that could carry more rounds. She had always quipped that the gun had been good enough to fight a world war and that the hollow point bullets she’d loaded, designed to spread and enlarge when they hit a target, would stop a bear or an evil bastard with the first shot, so she’d stick with it, thanks just the same. He checked the clip and the slide and then returned to the comfort of the brown sofa, placing the gun under the throw pillow his head would soon be on. Minutes later, exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep and didn’t move until his phone woke him. The house was dark, the sun had set, and it was Sam calling to confirm Matt was still coming into town for dinner.

  “Damn, Sam,” Matt apologized. “I fell asleep. I’ll be there in thirty!” Before Sam had a chance to offer another word, Matt was in the guest room shower, the water kept cold, waking him very quickly.

  “Coffee,” he called out as he shut it off and climbed out.

  Suddenly he remembered that the staff was not there. In the past, whenever he was in town, the cook would always have a fresh pot of coffee brewing for the caffeine addict they all enjoyed taking care of since he was a teenager. Then it hit him harder. He remembered that Coleman would never again come into the room and yell at him about his tossed towels or the pile of laundry in the corner. As he dried off, he felt the tears run down his cheeks, and he buried his head in the towel until the moment passed.

  “Old Goat?” he whispered to himself, snapping h
is mind back into investigator mode. Wearing fresh jeans, hiking boots, and a t-shirt, he was on his way to town.

  The Silver Dollar bar was attached to the Wort Hotel in downtown Jackson. Come winter or summer, the Silver Dollar always attracted a crowd.

  The Wort was built in the late 1800s, long before Harry Sinclair founded his oil company and before the Teapot Dome bribery scandal rocked the area and the White House. The Wort and its bar, named for the silver dollar coins that were molded into the serving bar surface, had been where Coleman took the boys for dinner every Saturday night. It had been their tradition, so it was fitting they returned here to celebrate her life and catch up. But Matt couldn’t get his mind off the turquoise ring and the old goat comment that had come from the White House earlier in the day. Clearly distracted, Sam tried his best to bring Matt’s attention back to the bar.

  “Damn, since when did this place start using topless waitresses?” he asked.

  With no reply, Sam tried again. “If you don’t start paying attention, I might have to stick my foot up your ass,” he said a little louder and with a smile.

  “Bring friends,” Matt laughed, and then raised his beer bottle and turned toward his friend. “To the Ole Lavender Lady!” he toasted. And then commenced the drinking, almost in a race to see who could down theirs the quickest. They laughed when both bottles hit the bar at nearly the same moment.

  “You picked up on her lavender today. I did too,” Sam acknowledged.

  “Whenever I’ve smelled that anywhere else, it always made me think of her, the ranch, and how peaceful and loved she made us all feel there.” Matt smiled, but Sam could tell he was lost in thought once again.

  “Okay, what time’s your plane?” Sam asked. He’d seen this happen dozens of times in recent years or heard Coleman complain about it to him.

  Matt laughed once again. “I have to get the staff squared away in the morning, then I plan on picking up her ashes around 10 and bringing her back to the ranch before heading out.”

  Matt took a long draw on the second beer, this time a Budweiser after complaining the IPA Sam had recommended tasted more like moose urine.