by Tim Tigner
He closed the Tiffany lid. It gave a final, fatal clap. He re-tied the white bow and secured the box in the safe. Turning his back on one future in favor of another, he staggered across the study to the adjacent bath … and threw up.
Chapter 6
Downtown Alexandria, Virginia
“WHAT DO WE have?” Cassi asked, trying to focus on the job at hand while still reeling from a shock of her own.
Officer Foster looked down at his notebook and smiled, “We got us some fans of The King.” He cleared his throat. “Elvis Aaron Adams got laid-off from the canning plant today. Came home to find his wife—Priscilla, I kid you not—in bed with another man. Now Elvis is threatening to kill them both with his shotgun. For about ten minutes he was screaming his head off and throwing things, during which the widow who lives next door called us. Then things went silent.”
“Have any shots been fired?” Cassi asked, remembering that this was the second time she had negotiated with a man named Elvis and wondering if that could be pure coincidence.
“Not a one.”
She nodded a couple of times as she processed the situation and then said, “Tell me about Elvis.” On any other day, she would have enjoyed the humor inherent in that sentence. Today she was not feeling the least bit whimsical. Officer Foster seemed to sense her mood.
“He’s Caucasian, forty-three years old. Five foot six. Two years ago when his driver’s license was issued he weighed one-forty-five.”
“Does he have a record?”
“Not even a parking ticket.”
“Do they have children?”
“The neighbor says no. She says it’s just the two of them living there.”
“How long ago did he return home?”
“About forty minutes.”
Cassi nodded as her processor kicked into overdrive. Forty minutes was a lot of cooling off time. It was also plenty of time to get worked up into a murderous frenzy or plunged down into a suicidal slump. Neither option looked good for Priscilla or her paramour. She decided to see how astute Foster was.
“Is Elvis a drinker?”
“The widow said yes, but when I pressed her on what that meant she admitted that it’s just a few beers on a Friday night.”
Cassi said, “Nice work,” and pulled out her cell phone. “What’s his number?”
“They don’t have a land line and both their cell phones are switched off.”
She cringed. That was bad news. “Thank you Foster. I’ve got it from here.”
Per regulations, Cassi knew that she should remain out of shotgun range. That would mean negotiating through a bullhorn. Whereas some of her colleagues preferred the authority of that technique, she used it only as a last resort or if drugs were involved. Her preference was always to try to connect with the perpetrator on a personal level. Without a phone, that meant she had to get close, close enough to Elvis for each of them to read the inflections in the other’s speaking voice.
She had a decision to make. If her analysis was correct, Elvis was highly unlikely to shoot first and ask questions later. Yesterday that would have been good enough for Cassi. Today she was not sure. She had awakened at Wiley’s feeling funny. Then she had watched with teary eyes as a white urine strip grew a blue stripe. If she risked her life today, she would be risking two.
A silenced scream emanating from the house made up her mind. She would ignore the regulation. Cassi ran to the front door and stood shielded by the frame. “Good afternoon, Elvis,” she said in a loud but friendly tone. “My name’s Cassandra Carr, Cassi for short. I’m here to help you. Would you please step toward the door so we can talk?” Pretty please with sugar on top.
Elvis did not offer an immediate reply. That was to be expected. He needed a minute to make up his mind. Cassi tried to focus on something else to keep from getting nervous while she waited, like whistling her way through a graveyard. It was not difficult. Her personal life had the sad, magnetic draw of the best soap operas. The irony of the latest development leapt to mind. During a recent interview on PoliTalk, Wiley had used the fallibility of condoms to make allegorical reference to homeland defenses—Was ninety-nine-percent efficacy good enough?—unaware that one of his own little soldiers had recently crossed enemy lines. If this were not so serious she would find it funny.
How would he react? She wondered. Would he be thrilled or horrified? Angry or overjoyed? Would he spurn her or propose? Surely he would propose now, Cassi figured. That was what she wanted, more than anything. But did she want it this way? The answer came immediately, soft but solid like an elephant appearing beneath a magician’s wand. No. No, she did not want to get Wiley this way.
The opening of a window on the second floor shook her back to the present. She stepped back for a better view and simultaneously plotted her course of retreat. She would beat feet at the first sign of a shotgun barrel. Unfortunately, she realized with a sinking heart, there was no suitable shelter anywhere close—just a thin lamp pole and a couple of scraggly bushes. The corner of the house was her only safe bet, and that was twenty feet away. The prudent thing for her to do would be to run there immediately.
Elvis preempted her bolt. “You can help by leaving, all of you.”
Cassi paused. It was a good sign that Elvis did not open with a threat. To her that indicated that violence was not the first thing on his mind. Furthermore, his request showed that he was anxious to escape. She replied, “I’d be happy to leave. So would all my friends.”
Elvis did not react immediately. He was waiting for her conditions. Cassi wanted him to accept the fact that there would be conditions, so she waited for him to ask. As she stood there on the concrete stoop beside the small dilapidated house, the focus of twenty sets of battle-ready eyes and one hostage taker, Cassi’s thoughts again drifted to her own condition.
She could not tell Wiley about the baby. Not now. Not until he proposed. And that meant that she could not tell her employer either. They were one and the same. Standing there in the shadow of a crime she wanted to feel good about her decision. She wanted to rest easy knowing that she had made it for the right reasons. But she did not. She felt guilty. She felt guilty because deep inside she was glad for the excuse.
Cassi was a leading contender to replace Jack Higgins at the end of the year when he retired as head of the FBI negotiations unit. Ever since he had announced his intentions she had tried not to court disappointment by thinking about it too much, but that was impossible. Running the negotiations unit was her dream job. And regardless of the psychological defenses she was trying to construct, she knew that she would be crushed if she did not get it.
Cassi did a quick tally of the math. She would be in her fourth month when Higgins’ successor was announced. Since this was her first child, she could probably keep her condition hidden until then if she dressed loosely enough. She was not completely comfortable with the ethics of springing the news the same month she got the promotion, but then there was no chance that they would give her the promotion if they knew she was pregnant, and that was not fair either. Was it?
“Okay. Then go on. Leave.”
Cassi snapped back into the negotiation at the sound of Elvis’s strained voice. “It’s not quite that simple, Elvis. First I need you to throw me your gun.”
“Don’t treat me like a fool.”
“I don’t think you’re a fool, Elvis. I think you’re a good man in a bad situation. You’ve been betrayed. I know you’re a decent guy. I know you don’t have a record. I just want to keep you from acting foolishly in a moment of anger. I don’t want you to do anything that would ruin the rest of your life. Let’s face it. If she betrayed you, she’s not worth it.”
“Will you let me go?”
“I will.”
“I can just get in my car and drive away and you won’t try to stop me?”
“Not if you didn’t hurt anybody. Not if you leave the gun behind. You didn’t hurt anyone, did you Elvis?”
“Nothing but a c
ouple of slaps.”
“Slaps they deserved.”
“Damn right.”
“Then you’re a free man. Go ahead. Leave the unworthy bitch. Start a new life. A better life. Or wait for her to come crawling back once she realizes what she’s lost. Your choice.”
Again there was silence. Cassi was worried by the lack of sound coming from the house. Normally the two hostages would be making some noise, trying to connect with the police lest they be forgotten once the bullets started to fly. She hoped that they were just scared into silence.
What would she do if Wiley did not propose soon? Cassi wondered. With the baby growing inside her, she could not wait too long. He would resent the position she had put him in even more if he found himself inextricably trapped. She knew from her counseling days that such a situation could open an emotional rift between them that would drain the intimacy from the rest of their lives.
“I’m coming out,” Elvis said, his voice just behind the door.
“Smart move, Elvis. Smart move. Just do me a favor. As you walk to your car, keep your hands in plain sight.”
Chapter 7
Tafriz, Iran
“THIS IS RABBIT One with an emergency transmission for Brer Bear,” Odi said, focusing on keeping his voice down. He knew that sound would carry dangerously well through the inky Iranian night.
“Roger, Rabbit One. Patching you through to Brer Bear.”
Odi hated working through the secure satellite switchboard. It cost too much precious time. He tapped a nervous foot and looked over at Adam. His best friend added to the tension by pointing to the luminous dial of his commando watch.
Odi nodded and mouthed, “I know.”
Potchak has stressed that he would measure the success of their mission as much by their ability to extricate undetected as by their tactical success. He had drummed deniability into Odi’s head. “Deniability tops your scorecard. Deniability is what counts. Deniability, deniability, deniability.”
Odi got the message. He had to make the demolition of the buildings look like an accident, like the tragic explosion of the unstable ordnance secreted within. As mission commander, he knew that the composition of their rocket propelled grenades had been modified with that conclusion in mind. Their equipment, their uniforms, everything was either an Asian knockoff or Soviet surplus. All of it was readily available throughout the Middle East. Including his bloody phone.
“Brer Bear here, Rabbit One. Go ahead.”
Odi flashed a thumbs-up to Adam and the other six members of the assault team as they sat on their packs spitting chew and trying to look more bored than scared.
“We have a situation. The Briar Patch appears legit. Repeat, the Briar Patch appears legit. There are no sentries present, and we just observed an ambulance.” His teammates all rolled their eyes at Odi’s grandiose description of the donkey cart. He just shrugged his shoulders sheepishly and looked away. “It brought in a farm boy who had just lost a foot. Looked like he had stepped on a mine. He was met by medics and rushed inside. I recommend that we abort pending further intel.”
“Negative on the abort, Rabbit One. You are to proceed as planned. Intel is confirmed. Don’t fall for the window dressing. Skullduggery like that is what has kept this training camp operational for years.”
Odi knew that Potchak was a hard ass, but he had not expected pushback. Command usually favored live input from the field over anonymous intel reports. “Sir, I’m prepared to do the recon myself, right now, alone.” As he spoke, Adam snapped his fingers to get Odi’s attention and then met his eye with an are-you-crazy stare. Odi turned his back. “Won’t take me more than ten—.”
“Negative, Rabbit One,” Potchak broke in. “For one, you don’t have ten minutes to throw away. You need to make it to the extraction site before first light. Secondly, I refuse to give those bastards a hostage. I’m not going to watch them cut off your head on the evening news while I try to explain that you had a hunch that the thick and exhaustive report compiled by the Middle-East desk was one-hundred-eighty degrees off the mark.”
“It won’t come to that, sir. I’ll order my team to proceed as planned with or without me at,” Odi looked at his watch, “oh-three-hundred. Just give me those ten minutes.”
“You sound dead set on checking this out, Rabbit One.”
“Time doesn’t wash off innocent blood, sir.”
Odi waited impatiently through a pregnant pause.
“Pass the phone to Rabbit Two.”
Odi smiled and handed Waslager the phone as he remembered the Chinese proverb to beware of what you wish for.
As Waslager listened to the commander, Odi’s team drew around, their habitually stoic faces contorted with concerned looks. “What are you planning to do?” O’Brien asked.
Odi had been in and out of the shit with these guys more times than any of them could count. With Waslager otherwise occupied, there was no need for Odi to dilute his words. “Before we propel ninety-six grenades though those cinder walls, I want to be damn sure that they’re landing on terrorist wannabes, rather than sick children’s heads.”
The six nodded once in unison as Odi continued. “I think this is one of those situations where intelligence reported what it was asked to report, kind of like Iraqi WMD. The source of the intel was probably some Iranian kid who would make up anything for a Benjamin. And knowing how things have been going down at recruiting, that report was probably analyzed by some Pentagon conscript with three weeks on the job.” Odi decided not to mention Potchak’s lack of surprise at his mention of the hospital’s operational status.
He removed his BDU top and untucked his tee shirt as he spoke, altering his silhouette so that it would not appear like a soldier’s. He laid aside his Chinese M4 and slipped his Beretta into the small of his back. “Hopefully I’m wrong. But taking out a hospital is not something I care to live with for the rest of my life.”
Odi finished the simple transformation by untucking his pant legs from his boots. Then he removed two flashbang grenades from his pack and slid them into the pockets of his pants. “If you hear one of these, that means I’m in the shit. You are not to wait for me, and you are certainly not to come in after me. You are to move ahead immediately with the original plan.” Odi met each man’s eye and waited for a confirming nod.
“I don’t mean to sound too dramatic. All I am going to do is take a casual perimeter walk around the two flanking buildings. I’ll look for telltales of a terrorist training camp, anything military, from boot marks to bullet casings to concealed cameras or guards. Without the two sentries to worry about, Waslager can cover me through his sniper scope instead. That way we’ll be right back on plan if I am challenged.”
“With the exception of you hauling ass in the opposite direction, I hope,” Flint added.
“Nothing I like better,” Odi replied, flashing a brilliant smile. “If I don’t see anything incongruent with a hospital, I’ll pop my head through the central building’s main door and—”
Waslager cut Odi off by clearing his gravelly throat. “Listen up,” he said, in a voice that was dangerously loud. “Commander Potchak has just relieved Agent Carr. I am now Rabbit One. So get off your asses and lock and load. We’re hot in sixty seconds.”
Everyone turned to look at Odi.
Chapter 8
The Horus Club, Washington, D.C.
THE DEAF WAITER raised an eyebrow as Wiley polished off his Scotch.
Wiley nodded and another drink was on the way. When Stuart arrived, it would appear to be his first.
Wiley had come to their rendezvous early. He needed to decompress. Although his heart and mind were working full time on his campaign, he was still the Director of the FBI. He had another full plate.
To manage the juggling act, Wiley had hinted to his deputy director that he was not planning to stay in office very long. When the time came, he would be happy to reward Carl’s diligence and loyalty by recommending his indispensable right-hand-man as
his clear and obvious successor. Given Wiley’s close relationship with the immensely re-electable President, Carl was tripping all over himself to pick up Wiley’s slack. Actually, Wiley knew that Carl slyly farmed-out most of the additional load. That was not difficult. The FBI had five major departments plus a dozen or so adjunct offices and committees, each headed by a savvy bureaucrat eager to rise still higher.
The scheme was working, but Wiley still lived beneath an enormous load of stress. Stuart contributed to it. Although Stuart technically worked for Wiley, it usually felt to Wiley like it was the other way around. His campaign manager always seemed to be the one holding trump. Plus Stuart radiated an intellectual superiority that made him awkward to command. Wiley could make requests of Stuart, but he had never managed to dictate.
Still, tonight he would try again. He had chosen the ultra-exclusive Horus Club so that he would enjoy the home-court advantage. In his heart he knew that tactical advantages would gain him nothing, but it was his habit to try. The analyst in him knew that whatever tack he chose, whatever methodology he employed, all Stuart had to do to get his was way was to pull out a recording.
He might do exactly that, Wiley thought. Like a communist dictator parading his armaments for all to see. But probably not. There was no point in reminding a person of something he could never forget, and Stuart did nothing without a point.
Wiley recalled the scene as it had played out six months earlier. The AADC’s lavish yacht. The three billionaire CEOs. The suspense. The arrogance. The grace. No, he would never forget their first meeting …
~ ~ ~
“It must have hurt,” the fat Texan scoffed, “losing your reelection bid.”