The Third Coincidence

by David Bishop

  Tonight he would bust his record. Then, by God, he’d keep his promise.

  Santee slammed the accelerator to the floor. The eucalyptusscented air poured through the moonroof to rustle his thinning hair. He felt young.

  His Jag entered the turn.

  Oh, my God.

  Fear grabbed his throat.

  Right in front of his speeding car stood an old woman pushing a baby carriage. For an instant his mind asked why she would be there, but there was no time for reasoning. He hit his high beams.

  Her eyes brightened. Her mouth opened. Her hands shot up shielding her eyes from the glare.

  He screamed for her to move the carriage, but the tightly built Jaguar suffocated his voice. He jerked hard to the right, strangling the steering wheel as his Jag smashed through the feeble guardrail. The left front tire clawed at the graveled edge, then spun freely in the air.

  He watched with horror as the rocks below appeared to be reaching up to embrace him.

  His last awareness, the humiliation of surrendering control of his bowels.

  The rain spotted the watcher’s face as he rushed to the broken guardrail. The full moon, ducking in and out among the rushing black clouds, revealed a mangled mass more resembling an accordion than a car. A moment later the Jaguar exploded, the crash having apparently ruptured the gas tank, its contents somehow reaching the old man’s cigarette. He had not anticipated a glorious explosion.

  The red glare, the bombs bursting in air.

  His lower jaw quivered. He wanted to stay, to watch, to feel the warmth wafting up from below. But he could not risk it. The local teens could start arriving at any moment. They would see the broken guardrail, look below, and report the accident.

  The night clouds veiled the moon while he concealed the carriage, dress, and wig in the back of his Explorer. He had left the vehicle parked just around a bend, on a gravel-covered shoulder. The bushes on the downhill side absorbing the headlights of any cars coming up the hill. After making sure there was no traffic approaching from either direction, he moved his SUV onto the road and went back to be sure there were no foot or tire tracks.

  The rain had stopped. The crickets were again reporting their positions to other crickets. There was little ambient light, but some bright dots from the nearest town could be seen far below. He drove the first mile down the mountain slowly with his headlights off, passing no one.

  His plan was well along the way; he could not be stopped. America would be saved.

  CHAPTER 5

  President Schroeder: “There is no evidence of a conspiracy.” James Bernard: “Still, Monroe, Montgomery, and Santee are dead.”

  —Fox News, last night

  The morning sun and clear air made the White House appear a symbol of all that was good. From closer, the symbol was now surrounded by so many barricades that the bastion of the free world appeared a fortress imprisoning itself.

  At the security gate, Jack was cleared by an attractive brunette with white polished fingernails holding a clipboard. She was small in the way a driver’s license describes a woman, but big in the way a man does.

  After parking, Jack buttoned his double-breasted, dark blue suit and reached for the door to the White House just as it swung open in the hand of an older woman.

  “Mr. McCall, I’m Gruber.” A single hair grew through a mole spotting her thin neck. In contrast, her smile said she had a good dentist and, working for the White House, a generous dental plan.

  “You may not remember me,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am, you were with President Schroeder, then our Ambassador in Kuwait.”

  “In your line of work I suppose remembering people is routine,” said Gruber. “The president is looking forward to seeing you again. Please follow me.”

  As they moved through the hallways, everyone seemed to be talking at once. Phones were ringing constantly, with people rushing about while talking back over their shoulders as they moved.

  Then Gruber opened the door to the Oval Office.

  President Samuel Schroeder looked as Jack had remembered. His hair was a little grayer, his forehead a little higher, and his paunch a little larger. But his clear blue eyes and casual manner were the same. A presidential face.

  “Hello, Jack. How do we get so busy that we lose contact with people we never meant to?” Schroeder came to him, extending both hands.

  “Hello, Mr. President. You’ve certainly kept yourself busy.”

  They sat facing each other on two gold brocade couches near the fireplace. Almost immediately Crockett, the president’s collie, came over and rested his chin on the knee of his master’s black slacks.

  “I often think about those nights we spent in embassy kitchens eating your homemade ice cream,” the president said, reaching down and scratching Crockett behind the ears. “Some of our best ideas were hatched that way. Do you still make those Grand Marnier bonbons?”

  “I thought about bringing some today.” Jack grinned. “But they’d’ve become a puddle getting through security.”

  “One of the more damnable aspects of this job. Which reminds me, drinks are on the side table. Help yourself. Lunch will be brought in soon. I’ve told Gruber that if we’re interrupted, she’d better have a first-class reason.” Then the president lowered his voice. “I was sorry to hear of the loss of your brother.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “You’ve had no action since that fiasco?”

  “Nothing official, sir.”

  “Yes. I heard about that unofficial thing. Perhaps I’ve got just what you need. A direct, hands-on assignment.”

  “Sir, before you begin, may I say something?” The president nodded. Jack edged forward on the couch. “I’ve been considering, well, leaving the CIA.”

  The president held his gaze on Jack. “I don’t want to lose you. Why don’t I find you something outside the agency?”

  “No. Thank you, sir. I should have said, retire from government service.”

  Jack was surprised when, instead of reacting to what he had just heard, the president changed the subject and asked if he still played chess. But he had long ago recognized the wiliness of his commander and chief.

  “Yes, sir. When you’re single and working the globe, chess fills the spots of personal time.”

  “You were always too good for me. Whom are you playing with now?”

  “I play correspondence chess,” Jack said. “To not disclose my identity, I use the name Carl with my sister’s address in Phoenix.”

  “How does that work?”

  “Different groups or games are handled differently. For some time now I’ve been involved in a tournament. Moves are posted on a bulletin board on the Internet.”

  “I may look into that.” The president’s brow wrinkled as his eyes narrowed. “Have you made your decision about retirement?”

  Jack grinned. Schroeder remained a grand master at conversational countermoves. “No, sir, I just felt you should know.”

  The president moved Crockett’s head, got up, and began pacing the room, just as Jack had often seen him do while an ambassador.

  “I’d like your thinking even if you decide to go ahead and retire,” he said. “Did you catch the morning news?”

  “Only a quick read about Santee’s auto accident.”

  “Such a sad ending,” the president said. “But, I was referring to a smaller story, further back, that said I was going to appoint you to look into these deaths.”

  “I didn’t see that. How did the paper get it? Who knew?”

  The president squeezed the back of the couch he stood behind. “Your boss over at the CIA, the directors of the FBI, the Defense Intelligence Agency, and the National Security Agency, also my chief of staff.”

  “No one else?”

  “No one else.”

  “Then one of them leaked the story.”

  Jack’s guess would be National Security Advisor Robert Quartz based on nothing more than his low regard for th
e man. The intelligence community had shaken its collective head when Quartz got the job. His family’s money and contacts built during prior generations had brought this fop to the highest level of government. Shit floats.

  The president stopped on the gold seal woven into the Oval Office’s blue carpet. “Yes. One of them,” he said. “Trying to keep something quiet in this town is like saving water in a sieve, but we can’t solve that now. Three men are dead.”

  Dead. There it was again, a word as crisp and final as the act. Jack had always hated the word, even when he had delivered it to a deserving person.

  The president pressed a button on his desk, took off his jacket, and turned up the cuffs on his white shirt. “Lunch is on the way. We’re having one you might remember from the old days: beefsteak tomatoes and mayonnaise on toasted dill rye bread with chips and a bottle of root beer. The kitchen called Gruber to confirm.” He laughed. “It’s a long way from the typical lunch around here. I can tell you that.”

  As always, Sam Schroeder had a knack for disarming those with whom he met. “Have the other agencies been able to connect these deaths?” Jack asked.

  Schroeder shook his head. “Do you think this is coming from across the pond? What’s your gut telling you?”

  “If Islamic terrorists are involved,” Jack said, “it’s a major tactical shift. Targeted assassinations of Americans have not been their thing. They like to kill us in bunches. That and the absence of electronic chatter tell me this is homegrown.”

  “The first time we met, I believe it was in Egypt, you said that two unexpected events with a common thread may be coincidental, but when confronted by a third, a connection must be assumed until proven to the contrary.”

  Jack inclined his head. “That remains my view, sir.”

  “We’re going to proceed under that assumption,” the president said, frowning. “You’ll have whatever you need and I’ve got your back, so don’t worry about the political crap that flies around this town. Will you take this assignment?”

  Jack pinched his bottom lip between his teeth. Politics soured things. Rotted people. He’d often seen the gangrenous result of the whole mess while posted through the State Department, not to mention his own agency. Hell, particularly in the CIA. He didn’t want to get into all that any deeper than his present desk job had put him. In particular, he hated the thought of again being in a position where people under his command could die. Still, these killings were happening on our home court, with the potential of disrupting both the government and the economy. On a more personal level, there was Sam, the man, his friend; a good first-term president with no chance at a second term without this killer being stopped soon.

  “Well, Mr. President, we can’t just go around making liars out of the morning news, now can we?”

  They grinned while shaking hands. The purpose for the meeting had been resolved.

  “What are the Israelis saying, sir?”

  “Spoke to their prime minister this morning. The Mossad has nothing. Like I said, we’ll play it domestically and keep an open mind.”

  “What about the task force itself?” Jack asked. “Who? How many? Whom do I report to?”

  “You pick the size, subject to future events, the staffing I’ll leave in your hands. You know the best people better than I, and whenever this office gets involved in staffing, politics end up dirtying the water.”

  “There’s a civilian I’ll want on the team.”

  “You will be responsible for him.”

  “I accept that, sir.”

  “I’m going to run this through the White House, so there’s some political realities. It’ll need to be a multiagency task force. You’ll need to include at least one person from the FBI and Defense. You’re the CIA’s only involvement. FBI Director Hampton has requested someone specific, an Agent Rachel Johnstone—her file suggests you may have met her.”

  Jack pictured Rachel’s face, her jet black hair and eyes the shade of washed blue denim. He had forgotten a lot of women he had known since, but would never forget Rachel. She had been a bit aggressive in letting him know she was available, but then he had been a bit stuffy in those days about protocol.

  “We met some years ago, sir. Ms. Johnstone was with naval intelligence. She helped on an assignment I did for the Defense Department. She’s tireless and a solid thinker. If Director Hampton suggested she be put in charge, she must have developed into a fine agent. That doesn’t surprise me. I’ll take a look at her file and consider making her second in command. That’ll strengthen the CIAFBI coordination. From Defense, I’ll want Colin Stewart.”

  The president furrowed his brow. “I know that name.”

  “The Kuwaiti Embassy. Colin sat with us while we structured the contingency plan for the possible evacuation.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember. When my wife saw him, she said that he had cheekbones sharp enough to cut cold butter. It was an odd thing for her to say.”

  “The ladies say he’s ruggedly handsome.” Jack shrugged. “Go figure.”

  “You asked about authority. You take orders only from me. But, please, do your level best to avoid ruffling the feathers on my big birds. I’ll want periodic reports on my request or when you feel it’s warranted. Here’s the jacket on Ms. Johnstone. Take a look after we’re done. Give it to Gruber on your way out. If you need anything, call Gruber or my chief of staff, Clarence Stafford. He prefers Clancy. Should you think it necessary, call me directly. You will be given the same access as my cabinet members. Any questions?”

  Here I go again, Jack thought, one more for the Gipper. “Not now,” he said, “but I’ll likely have some later.”

  On the way to the lunch table, the president picked up a book from the credenza near his desk. “Have you read this?” he asked, angling the book. “The Politics of Oil and Terrorism.”

  “Finished it last weekend, sir.” They sat down and unfolded their linen napkins.

  “I finished it last night,” the president said. “How did it strike you?”

  “A solid book, sir. The extremists want our influence out of their part of the world. They could likely get it done by destroying the oil industry in the Middle East. But they’re pragmatic enough not to have done so because, indirectly, a chunk of their funding for terrorism comes from our oil purchases.”

  The president held up his sandwich. “God, I’ve missed these.” He took a big bite and used his tongue to erase the mayonnaise comma punctuating the corner of his mouth.

  “I don’t think I’ve had tomato on rye since we were together in Kuwait,” Jack said, feeling a bit odd. Here he was having an ordinary lunch with the president of the United States, talking about shared books and world issues the way they had so many times, so long ago when the man was just Sam.”

  The president put down his sandwich. “After air, water, and food, oil is the most vital commodity to our way of life. And the production and distribution of much of the food and water are dependent on oil, not to mention getting the American consumer to the food. Our reliance on the most volatile region of the world for a huge portion of our oil borders on insanity. And that doesn’t even take in the fact that OPEC is a monopolistic cabal that couldn’t exist under our laws. So, where else should we go for our oil?”

  Jack knew that in America every major issue came down to the two main political parties striving to make the other look bad by always opposing whatever the other party wanted. Still, with political resolve, solving our oil dependency was doable.

  “Untie our oil industry’s hands so they can develop our own fields,” Jack said, answering the president, “and there’s Mexico. If we diverted a third of our OPEC buys into increased purchases of oil from Mexico, we could, through bringing that quantity of our buys into our region of the world, further stabilize our sources of oil while enhancing the Mexican economy. The good-paying jobs created in the process would reduce the motivation for illegals to cross our border. As part of the oil deal, we could likely barter for real coop
eration on their side to slow down human and drug smuggling. I hope I haven’t been too candid, sir.”

  “Nonsense. I asked, but we need to leave that discussion for another day and get back to why you’re here.”

  Twenty minutes later, Jack drove out through the same White House security checkpoint. With his focus on assembling his team, he failed to notice the dark Ford Explorer that turned from F Street onto Seventeenth to fall in two cars behind.

  CHAPTER 6

  Security is tight at the Supreme Court. There’s talk of an early summer recess, and whispers now and then about resignations.

  —Sarah Little, NewsCentral 7, June 5

  Rachel Johnstone left the FBI building in a snit. She had just finished meeting with the FBI’s beefy director, Fred Hampton, where he’d assigned her the murders of two Supreme Court justices and the suspicious death of a Federal Reserve governor. Then came the almighty but. But, she would be working on a task force under Jack McCall.

  She knew her desire to lead the investigation exceeded her résumé. But the lead had not just been taken from her, it had been taken from the bureau and given to a spook, and not just any spook, Jack McCall.

  Why me, Lord?

  Thirty minutes later, Rachel walked into her one-bedroom apartment, dropped her keys in the basket on the mahogany sofa table just inside the door, ruffled the head of her cat, Jingles, standing next to the basket, filled the cat’s bowl with dry crunchies, and started shedding her pantsuit. She hung her blouse over the back of a chair and reached back to pop her brassiere. Then, using the remote she turned on some bluesy piano player that fit her sultry mood, the overhead fan cooling her sweaty skin.

  She doubted Jack McCall would remember her. Not unless he remembered all the women who had come on to him, women he had shunted aside with one excuse or another. With her he had used the unimaginative “regulations do not permit personal involvement among intelligence personnel.” It had been a putdown and she had not forgotten.