"Seriously?"
The old man nodded. "If you don't mind."
Jake reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out the leather case that contained his FBI badge and credentials. "You called me, remember?"
"I apologize but my paranoia is quite justified, as you will soon learn."
Jake opened his credentials. The small gold FBI shield was pinned to the outside of the case. The credentials themselves were two large laminated identification cards. The top card had "FBI" superimposed over it in big blue letters, and the bottom card bore Jake's photograph and the signature of the FBI director. Although he pretended to be irritated with the man's request to see his ID, Jake got a thrill every time he got to show his FBI credentials.
The old man tried to take the leather case from Jake's hand to examine the credentials more closely, but Jake wouldn't let it go. After a few seconds, Jake pulled the case away and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
"It's time you tell me what this is all about, Mr. Broussard," Jake said, trying hard to keep the impatience out of his voice. This was, after all, his first tour as duty agent, a weeklong assignment that always drew after-hours crank calls and kooks with tips, and clearly this was one of them; still, he didn't need his very first kook filing a complaint against him. The Bureau, Jake was learning, took everything seriously, especially complaints about agents not behaving professionally during interviews with members of the public.
The man picked up the pack of Lucky Strikes and peeled off the cellophane wrapper. "Cigarette?"
"I don't smoke," Jake said. "And you can't smoke in here."
The man shrugged, then opened the pack and plucked out a cigarette. "I've always found that it calms my nerves."
"It's against the law," Jake said.
Ignoring him, the old man slipped a battered silver Zippo lighter from his pocket and lit the cigarette. He took a long drag and held it for several seconds before turning his head and blowing it out. "Are you going to arrest me?"
Jake leaned back in his chair to keep from breathing the fumes. He looked around for the busty waitress he'd seen earlier. Maybe if she threatened to kick the old guy out he would douse the cigarette. Naturally, she wasn't around. Several nearby customers were glaring at them. Jake felt like pointing out to them that he wasn't the one smoking.
The old man either didn't notice the hostile stares or didn't care. Jake was betting on the latter. Then he took another drag and started looking for an ashtray. There wasn't one. So he flicked his ashes on the floor. "How could anyone be so foolish as to make it illegal to smoke in a coffee shop?"
"It's actually a diner," Jake said. "People are trying to eat here."
The old man waved his cigarette. "To tell you the truth, I don't much care for American cigarettes, but if I have to smoke them," he tapped the pack of Lucky Strikes, "these are the only ones I can tolerate. All your other brands are so...weak."
"Where did you learn about recognition signals?" Jake asked.
"Spy novels," the man said as he scooped his notebook off the table and shoved it into a worn leather messenger bag on the floor beside his chair. "I read a lot of them while I was in prison."
"Prison?" Jake said. "For what?"
Just then the busty waitress showed up and poured more coffee into the old man's cup. He held his cigarette under the table and wore an expression that made Jake think of a boy caught looking at a porn magazine. The waitress arched an eyebrow at him but didn't mention the cigarette. Then she turned to Jake. "You ready to order?" she asked, a piece of gum smacking inside her mouth as she spoke.
"Just coffee," Jake said.
"Pie's really good here," she said with a few more smacks.
"No, thank you. Just coffee."
She rolled her eyes and walked away.
"I understand that in this country they live mostly on tips," the old man said.
"You talking about the waitress?"
The old man nodded. "In Europe we don't tip, but waiters and waitresses make a decent wage."
"What can I help you with, Mr. Broussard?"
"My real name is Andre Favreau." The old man took a long drag on his cigarette and flicked more ashes on the floor. Then he blew out a stream of smoke and looked at Jake. "I killed President Kennedy."
Chapter 4
Inside the Ford Explorer, the laptop computer on the front console beeped as its facial recognition software spit out a match.
"Son of a bitch," the driver said. "He's fucking FBI."
The passenger, who was still watching the meeting inside Louie's Café through the Nikon's zoom lens, pulled his eye away from the viewfinder and looked down at the laptop. On the screen were two photographs, one of which he had shot just moments ago of the young guy in the coat meeting with the geezer in the diner; the other one was of the same guy, but a full-on head and shoulders shot with him wearing a suit and tie.
Beneath the two photographs were the words "100% MATCH." And beneath that was the identifying data for Jacob Miller, twenty-five years old, with a D.C. address, and whose employer was listed as the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
"Holy shit," the passenger said. "What the hell are we supposed to do now?"
The driver was dialing a number on his cellphone. He put it on speaker. A man answered on the first ring. "Go."
"The target is meeting with an FBI agent," the driver said.
"Where?"
"A diner on 11th Street in Northwest."
"Is the agent alone?"
"He doesn't appear to have a backup team," the driver said.
The man on the other end of the line was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Pick him up."
"You're talking about the target, right?"
"Yes, goddamnit, the target."
"What about the FBI agent?"
Another silence. Then the man said, "Don't let him interfere."
The line went dead.
"What the fuck?" the passenger said.
The driver shrugged. "You heard the man."
***
Jake sighed and shook his head. This was even worse than he had imagined. "Mister...What did you just call yourself?"
"Favreau. Andre Favreau."
"So which is it?" Jake said. "Because on the phone you told me your name was Henri Broussard."
"I apologize for the deception. Henri Broussard was a nom de guerre I was forced to adopt because I did not want to use my real name on the telephone. But you have my word, Agent Miller. My true name is Andre Favreau. That was the name my parents gave me when I was born."
"Which was where?"
"Corse," the man said. "Corsica to you. Where Napoleon was born. An island in the—"
"I know where Corsica is."
The man nodded.
"Favreau it is then," Jake said. "But I have to inform you, Mr. Favreau, that in this country lying to an FBI agent is a serious crime. A felony actually, punishable by up to—"
"It wasn't a lie so much as a precaution," said the old man with the ponytail.
But Jake wasn't in the mood to play patty-cake with this whack job, so he talked right over him. "Punishable by up to ten years in federal prison." Jake glanced at his watch. The Redskins game was starting in...Whoa. Wait just a minute. He stared at the Rolex's date window, magnified by the small Cyclops lens attached to the crystal.
The number "20" stared back at him. November 20. Two days before...Jake did some quick mental math: 1963 to 2000 was thirty-seven, plus thirteen, equals...fifty. In two days it would be November 22, 2013, the 50th anniversary of the death of John F. Kennedy. Under normal circumstances, the JFK assassination was a siren call for lunatics, like UFOs, the Loch Ness Monster, and Big Foot. And this year, the 50th anniversary, was bound to bring out even more crazies than usual.
As Jake eyed the man across the table, the man who had insisted on this meeting, his first reaction was anger. The Redskins where making a rare appearance on their old home field at RFK Stadium for a game that had bee
n sold out for months, a game to which Jake had managed to get his hands on three tickets, and his girl, really the girl he wanted to be his girl, was either already at the game or at least headed that way, in the company of Jake's horn-dog roommate, Chris; yet here he was stuck in a diner on the other side of town, talking to a basket case about the Kennedy assassination.
Why couldn't this guy have called in with his fake French accent during normal work hours? Then whatever agent happened to be unlucky enough to answer the phone would have had to deal with him. Let somebody else solve the JFK case. Jake wanted to be at the game with Stacy.
Jake's Blackberry vibrated. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and checked the screen. It was a text message from Chris, "40 min 2 k off. Stac is smokin HOT:)"
Son of a bitch. Was this...? Could he have...? No. No way. But maybe. What if this wasn't a coincidence? What if Chris set this whole thing up so he could go to the game with Stacy and cut me out? But Chris wouldn't...The hell he wouldn't.
Chris was a nice guy and Jake's best friend, but he could be a weasel when it came to women. He had proved that at the Academy, where male trainees outnumbered females four to one and the competition for weekend female attention was fierce. Jake had never been able to get a date for even one of the twenty weekends he'd spent at Quantico. Chris, on the other hand, had a date almost every weekend. Chris also knew the duty agent roster and the protocols for dealing with calls, even calls from crackpots.
Jake couldn't help himself. He laughed.
"What's funny?" the old man asked.
"You're good, Mister...whatever your name is," Jake said. "You're really good. Except for the accent. That was a bit over the top. But other than that...You must be an actor, right?" As he spoke his fingers tapped out a message on his cellphone. "Is this your A-game? JFK? The grassy knoll? Pathetic! B there in 30. Keep your hands off."
"I don't understand," said the old man.
Jake hit the send button on his Blackberry. "I had no idea Chris was this desperate to steal Stacy from me."
"I'm sorry, Agent Miller, but I do not know these people, Chris and Stacy."
Jake stood up. The waitress hadn't come back with his coffee, but he dropped a dollar on the table. "Feel free to text Chris and tell him you had me for a while, but I'm still going to make it to the game. And he's still got no shot with Stacy."
The old man rose and picked up his messenger bag. "Agent Miller, I don't understand what you are talking about."
Jake strode toward the door without further explanation. He had a football game to get to. He heard the old man lumbering to catch up. Old man? Maybe he wasn't even an old man. Maybe that was makeup and a wig. If the accent was hokey, the wig-and Jake was now pretty sure it was a wig-was total cornball. Nobody wears hair like that anymore. This isn't Woodstock. It would be just like Chris to go all out, though, especially when the potential prize was Stacy Chapman.
Jake had to step aside to allow the top-heavy waitress to pass with a full tray. He felt a tug on his arm. The fake Frenchman had caught up with him. "I promise you," the man said, still pushing the hokey accent, "I killed the president of the United States." The buzz in the diner was loud enough so that only a few people heard it, but those who did, stopped talking and started listening.
Jake pulled away. "Listen...sir, I appreciate a good practical joke as much as the next guy. Okay? Whatever Chris paid you, he got his money's worth. You were good, believe me. I totally bought the whole conspiracy kook thing. But this joke's over. I've got somewhere to be." He turned and walked away. In the reflection from the window glass he saw the man standing behind him, staring at his back.
Jake pushed his way out the door and stopped on the sidewalk. He took a deep breath and checked his watch again. It was 6:30. Thirty minutes to kickoff. He could just make it.
How long did Chris think his hired actor was going to tie him up? Through the first quarter? Until halftime? The whole game? In addition to being a ladies man, Chris also had a reputation at the Academy for practical jokes. But this time he had outdone himself. Jake was still pissed, but he knew it wouldn't last. It was hard to stay mad at Chris. Unless Stacy decided to go out on a real date with Chris and not him. Now that would be hitting below the belt.
Jake heard the door open behind him. He didn't turn around. There was nothing more to say. They guy had done his job. Chris was probably getting a hell of a laugh out of it. Jake looked north up 11th Street. Metro Center was two blocks away. He took a step in that direction.
"Agent Miller?" said a voice behind him, and he knew right away that it wasn't the old man's voice, even if it had lost a few decades and the fake French accent.
Jake turned around.
Chapter 5
"I had no idea who they were. At first, I thought they were part of Chris's gag. Then I thought, how much would he be willing to spend on this? We were both G.S.-10s and D.C. was expensive, even with the cost-of-living adjustment. That's why we were sharing an apartment. I knew he had the creativity to pull off this kind of prank, but I didn't think he had the money."
***
Four men in dark suits stood on the sidewalk. Spread out in pairs. One pair close to Jake. The other pair near the door and the old guy with the ponytail-Henri Broussard, Andre Favreau, or whatever his name really was-who had just stepped out of the diner.
The four men were almost identical. Near carbon copies of each other. All looking like they worked for IBM or NASA back in the 1960s: buzz cuts, clean-shaven, and skinny ties; but no pocket protectors, slide rules, or horn-rimmed glasses. So exactly how far was Chris willing to go to get a date with Stacy? Jake wondered. No way these guys were actors. They seemed too tough, too confident.
"Sir, you need to come with us," said the man closest to Jake. "You and Mr. Favreau."
Jake felt a prickly sensation crawling up his spine. Could he have misread the situation so completely? "Who are you?"
"We're with the government," Suit Number One said.
"So am I." Jake pulled his credentials from his jacket pocket and flashed the gold FBI badge at the man.
"We know who you are, Agent Miller, but you and Mr. Favreau still need to come with us."
Jake scanned their faces. "Are you guys cops?"
The nearest one took a step closer to Jake. "You need to come with us now, sir."
"I'm not going anywhere until you—"
The man moved with incredible speed. He hit Jake in the solar plexus. It wasn't a hard hit. More of a jab. Middle knuckles bent, ends of the four fingers folded back toward the palm, hand vertical to fit the apex of the ribs just below the sternum. And then Jake had no air in his lungs. Somehow it had all left, forced out by that casual, perfectly-placed jab.
As Jake dropped to his knees, his vision shrank, narrowing from the sides. Fighting to breathe, he was only dimly aware of his surroundings, but he was alert enough to sense that the man who had hit him was stepping behind him and yanking his arms together. He also saw the pair of men nearest to Favreau, which did, in fact, seem to be his real name, shove the old guy against the brick wall between the door and the plate glass window.
Several passersby had stopped to watch, and the fourth suited man was waving them away. "Metro Police. Move along." Some did move along, some didn't. But those who stayed kept their distance.
Suit Number One dropped to one knee and yanked Jake's hands together behind his back, and although Jake hadn't actually arrested anybody yet, he had done enough handcuffing exercises at the Academy to know what was coming next. The man held Jake's wrists with one hand and pulled out a set of handcuffs with the other.
But I can get out of this, Jake thought. I have a handcuff key in my pocket. Then he realized the key in his front pocket wasn't going to do him any good with his hands cuffed behind his back.
So Jake did the very next thing he thought of. He slammed his head backward into the man's face and heard his nose crack. The man howled in pain.
Jake lurched to his feet an
d looked at Favreau. One of the two suits who'd shoved Favreau against the wall was down with his face in the concrete. The second suit looked stunned at whatever had happened to his partner, but he recovered quickly and threw two fast strikes at Favreau's head. Except the old guy blocked them. Then Favreau countered with a strike of his own, a knuckle-punch to the throat, a technique that FBI defensive tactics instructors had told Jake and his Academy classmates was absolutely prohibited for FBI agents to use because it could result in permanent damage, even death. The second suit crumpled to the sidewalk, gagging with both hands clutching his throat.
Jake reached for his service weapon, a Glock 23, .40-caliber pistol, holstered on his right hip. As his hand closed on the polymer grip, Jake heard a sharp pop to his left. Then his head exploded in burning white light. Somewhere far back in his mind, he registered a stabbing pain in his neck. He heard the crackle of electricity and smelled burning flesh. He'd been hit with a Taser. Something clanked on the sidewalk and Jake realized it was his pistol. Then his knees gave out, and he dropped to the ground beside his FBI-issued Glock.
After several seconds-or maybe hours, it was hard to tell-the electricity stopped crackling. But Jake's body kept twitching. He knew he was conscious because his eyes were open and he could see. He just couldn't move, at least not voluntarily. Just the twitching. He saw two things in quick succession: Suit Number One picked up Jake's Glock from the sidewalk, and then a foot came flying from somewhere outside of Jake's field of vision and slammed into Suit Number One's chest, knocking him out of Jake's view.
Favreau reached down and grabbed hold of the two steel wires sprouting from Jake's neck. He yanked on them and more pain shot through Jake, but it wasn't the electric-shock kind of pain. It was the skin-tearing kind. He wasn't sure which one was worse.
The Second Shooter Page 2