“He was shot. From a distance, by a man with a rifle.”
Tears welling, the father asked, “Who in God’s name would want to shoot our son? In Maryland! He was a good boy—he served his country honorably.”
“We were hoping, sir, that you and your wife might have some idea.”
Spreading his hands in surrender, the father said, “We told you! We didn’t even know he was in the country. We thought he was overseas.”
“Where, specifically?”
The barest hint of a smile crossed the man’s face, then disappeared into sorrow. “He always said that if he told us, he’d have to kill us.”
The echo of what Miggie had said to her a few hours before gave her a shiver.
Mrs. Wooten looked up from her lap and said, “It was all top-secret work for the government.”
Great. No help. “What kind of government work was he doing if he was out of the Army?”
Mr. Wooten shrugged and shook his head a little. “Well . . . he was working as a contractor.”
“Do you know what he was contracted to do? Who might have contracted him?”
The father shook his head. “Anthony just said ‘top secret,’ and we respected that.”
Another dead end.
“Whatever it was,” Mr. Wooten volunteered, “there’s a strong possibility it was . . . that it wasn’t strictly . . . legal.”
His wife drew in a breath and gave him an I-can’t-believe-you-said-that look, and Rogers felt her stomach tighten.
Resting a hand on his wife’s knee, Mr. Wooten said, “Connie, these people are from the FBI. If they look into our financials for five minutes, they’ll find the money. I used to work for the government—I know.”
“Sir,” Rogers asked, trying not to betray the stir within her, “what money are you referring to?”
Mr. Wooten glanced at his wife, who closed her eyes and gave him a tiny nod.
Then he said, “A few months ago, Anthony put some money away for us.”
“Away where, sir?”
“In an account in the . . . what are they called? Cayman Islands. Under our name.”
“How much?”
“. . . Quite a bit.”
“How much, sir?”
“. . . One hundred thousand dollars.”
The agents traded looks.
Rogers asked, “Did Anthony tell you where that money came from?”
Mr. Wooten tried to maintain eye contact with her, but couldn’t. “Anthony said his contract work was paying nicely, and he just wanted to put some retirement money away.”
Hardesy asked, “For himself or for you?”
“For . . . well, for all of us. Whichever of us needed it more. I have a decent pension, and we don’t want for much of anything, so . . . really, I suppose it would eventually go to Anthony. Would have gone.”
Rogers asked, “You didn’t press him on where he got that kind of money?”
Shaking his head a little, Mr. Wooten said, “Agent Rogers, I’ll admit to you that I . . . I didn’t really want to know.”
“Do you have the account information?”
He sighed. Seemed defeated, and not by his guests—by life. “Connie can get it for you. We’re going to lose that money, aren’t we?”
Rogers shook her head. “I don’t really know.”
Anthony’s mother got up and went to a bedroom in the back of the house, Nichols tagging along with her. Several awkwardly silent minutes passed before the two women returned; Nichols, with a manila folder in hand, gave Rogers a nod.
Rising, Rogers said, “We’ll look into this, Mr. and Mrs. Wooten. We will, I assure you, do everything we can to find the person responsible for your son’s death . . . Is there someone you can call to come stay with you?”
The Wootens were on their feet, too, standing hand in hand.
“Thank you,” Mr. Wooten said. “We’ll be fine. Our other children are still in the area, and we’ll call them right away. Do you . . . do you have any idea what Anthony was doing in Maryland?”
Rogers knew exactly what he was doing—he was plotting the assassination of the Secretary of the Interior.
“No, sir,” she told him, “no idea at all.”
“The point in history at which we stand is full of promise and danger. The world will either move forward toward unity and widely shared prosperity—or it will move apart.”
Franklin Delano Roosevelt, thirty-second President of the United States of America. Served 1933–1945. The only person to win four presidential elections.
NINE
When he entered the Oval Office, Joe Reeder found the President in shirtsleeves and tie behind that familiar, formidable desk, looking like his best friend had just died. Chief of Staff Timothy Vinson, certainly not the friend in question, stood to Harrison’s left side, seething, mustache twitching, a boil in a three-piece suit on the verge of bursting.
Jesus, Reeder thought, this guy is in full-blown Yosemite Sam mode.
Harrison motioned to Reeder to join them, and he quickly did, standing opposite, nodding, saying, “Mr. President.”
The commander in chief asked the ex-Secret Service agent, “Are you getting anywhere, Joe? On the direct line, Krakenin is stopping just short of accusing us . . . of accusing me . . . of inciting war. And the back-channel chatter is even worse.”
Dubbed “the Kraken” by American media outlets, Boris Mikhailovich Krakenin, President of the Russian Federation, was a notorious saber-rattler. But the Russian incursion into Azbekistan was not just a threat, and the deaths of four CIA agents in the midst of it put both nations at the precipice.
Preferring not to brief the President with Vinson present, Reeder said, “Making progress, sir, yes.”
Vinson began to pace a small area near the big desk, words tumbling out of him. “Boris has taken to referring to the Azbekistani government as a ‘puppet regime,’ accusing us of propping up a handful of insurgents. He doesn’t consider his own country’s actions as an invasion, oh no . . . just rightfully putting down a rebellion.”
“A rebellion,” Harrison said dryly, “in the form of a freely elected democratic government going back six years.”
“Krakenin,” Reeder said, “makes Putin look like a pushover.”
Harrison cocked his head. “You know the man?”
“‘Know him’ overstates it. I met him once, years ago. Secret Service days, when now-President Krakenin was serving in the FSB under General Bortnikov.”
These three were well aware that the Russian Federal Security Service was home to many a ruthless bastard.
Harrison asked, “Any thoughts on comrade Boris?”
Reeder shrugged. “Only that he considered Putin a weak sister and Stalin the consummate Russian leader. Some men lead with an iron fist. Krakenin heats up that iron fist in a forge till it burns a nice bright orange.”
The President was nodding. “He’s a hard-ass of the first order, little doubt of that. But do you think he really wants war?”
Reeder smiled thinly. “Mr. President, with all due respect, you have access to far more worthy analysts than some lowly security-outfit exec.”
“With all due respect, Joe,” Harrison said, with his own restrained grin, “false modesty doesn’t suit you. For decades you’ve stood at the sides of Presidents, in this very office, and seen and heard so very much. Don’t they call you the People Reader? So based on your observations of Boris Badenov, years ago and in his on-air appearances of more recent times . . . what do you think he’s up to?”
“Not war.”
Vinson’s laugh was both immediate and bitterly derisive.
Harrison gave his Chief of Staff a quick sharp look, cutting the laugh off, and Vinson looked on in surly silence.
“What makes that your opinion, Joe,” Harrison asked, “considering the man recklessly invaded a sovereign nation, and got four of our agents killed?”
Reeder’s tone could not have been more matter-of-fact. “He doesn’t want
war—he wants portillium.”
Vinson frowned and growled, “What the holy hell is portillium?”
Quietly the President said, “The element that lends stability to Senkstone as a plastic explosive.”
They all knew what Senkstone was—the most versatile and dangerous munition of its kind yet developed.
Harrison said, “Boris wants the rich veins of portillium, known only to that region, found underneath the otherwise unimpressive surface of Azbekistan.”
Reeder said, “Taking over that pimple on the face of the planet is the most expedient way to acquire that scarce element in quantity.”
“Science fiction,” Vinson muttered.
“Is it?” the President asked. “All of this came to classified light when the Special Situations Task Force discovered the existence of Senkstone.”
Reeder nodded. “Boris’s people go in, mine as much as they can, until a truly serious United Nations threat comes along . . . which after all could take decades . . . and then retreat to the border with all the portillium they can carry, and generously let Azbekistan have its ravaged land back.”
The President, looking rather sick, said, “And with the ability to contrive that much Senkstone, Boris can do . . .”
“Pretty much anything he wants,” Reeder finished.
Thanks to portillium, Senkstone’s best quality as a plastic explosive was that it was stable enough to use in a 3D printer, and could be molded to mimic anything. Like to match some world leader’s eyeglasses for an assassination. Or, shaped in some manner that disguised its purpose, blow up the White House.
Or the Kremlin.
“So,” Vinson said, squinting in thought, “the Azbekistan invasion is just a cover for . . . a strip-mining operation?”
“More to it than that, Timothy,” Harrison said. “The Russian hard-liners will be ecstatic to see Boris flexing his muscles, making it a political win at home . . . and with the Azbekistanis under the Russian boot heel again, maybe, just maybe, the world would let him hold onto that little excuse for a country.”
“Okay,” Reeder said. “Now—do you want to hear the really bad news?”
“For Christ’s sake,” Vinson said, “what could that be?”
Harrison knew. He said, quiet again, “That someone on our side knew the exact time of that invasion and sent four American agents to die in it, in hopes of starting a war with Russia—a war that doesn’t really seem to suit Krakenin’s agenda.”
Rising, the President gestured toward the informal central meeting area of couches and chairs, and the three men repaired there. Reeder and Vinson took the couch and the President an overstuffed chair opposite.
“Mr. President,” Reeder said, “at the risk of impertinence . . . there’s a question I must ask.”
“Ask it, Joe.”
“Someone on our side knew when the invasion was going down. Agreed?”
“That would appear so.”
“Which means that someone had the ability to send our agents into harm’s way.”
“Yes.”
Reeder locked eyes with the President and asked, as if wondering what time it was, “Was that person you, sir?”
Vinson exploded, turning to Reeder, spittle flying his way. “What in the hell . . . ! You have no right to—”
An upraised hand from the President cut Vinson off.
“Joe is a citizen I called upon for a mission, Tim, which gives him every right to question his president.”
Reeder said, “And the question stands, sir.”
Next to him, Vinson was turning shades of red—suffering succotash . . .
The dark eyes in the auburn face met Reeder’s unblinkingly. “Isn’t the real question, did I go after the portillium for the benefit of the United States, using those CIA agents as an advance team? And have I been using you to cover my tracks?”
“That’s two questions, Mr. President. But that sums it up.”
Harrison’s smile was a weary one. “If only I were that smart, Joe . . . but the truth is, I never even saw this coming. Satisfied?”
Reeder worked to detect every micro-expression, every body nuance, but nothing led him to think that the President was lying. Of course, US presidents were among the most skilled liars in history.
Just the same, Reeder said, “Yes, sir, I am. Thank you for your frankness.”
The Chief of Staff next to Reeder on the couch half-turned to him, agape.
“Now it’s my turn for a question,” Harrison said. “Are you any closer to finding our traitor? Director Shaley is either stalling or genuinely flummoxed.”
Reeder let out some air. “I think with Director Shaley, sir, it’s the latter. Of course, he might be taking care of the problem in-house, to protect himself and his domain . . . but I can’t honestly say I’m really any closer on that front, Mr. President. Not directly.”
Harrison frowned. “Then you haven’t got a thing for me?”
“I know more than I did, when we spoke yesterday . . . but not the name of the mole. I have learned something that’s . . . troubling.”
“Which is?”
Reeder had held this back because of Vinson’s presence; but there was clearly nothing not shared between these men.
So Reeder said it: “Secretary Yellich was assassinated.”
In a soundproofed room, silence can be surreal. And the three men breathing was the only sound any of them could discern in the uncomfortable stillness.
“But that . . . that was an accident,” Vinson said, absent of any of his usual bluster. “A tragic—”
“Murder,” Reeder said. “So was the hit-and-run death yesterday of CIA agent Len Chamberlain. I was there and I saw it.”
Then Reeder handed over everything that Rogers and Hardesy had turned up in their investigation thus far, leading up to and including the murder of Tony Wooten/Evans. He left out only the information Rogers had gleaned from the Wooten family in Pennsylvania—until Miggie Altuve traced the source of the family’s money in the Caymans, reporting that would be premature.
And he also stopped short of outlining the potentially absurd-sounding concept of a shadow government.
When Reeder had finished, President Harrison stared at the floor, shaking his head.
“Five CIA agents down,” he said, “the Secretary of the Interior assassinated, her assassin himself liquidated . . . and if I put the pieces together correctly, you’re telling me this could all be a plot by the Russians, with help from someone in our government, for a land grab? All to acquire the resources to make an unlimited amount of an undetectable plastic explosive . . . with World War III in the offing.”
“It’s a genuine possibility, Mr. President,” Reeder said.
Vinson said, “Why on earth would any American help the Russians acquire the key to Senkstone?”
Reeder shrugged. “They may not have figured out that part. The goal of the rogue players in our government may well be a hawkish one toward Krakenin’s Russia. As for Senkstone, very few people in or out of government even know about it, and fewer still are aware that portillium is the element needed to stabilize it.”
Shaking his head, the Chief of Staff said, “I just can’t believe it.”
“Well, there’s an even worse read of the rogue element,” Reeder said.
Vinson grunted. “What in God’s name could be worse?”
But the President answered his Chief of Staff: “They could know about portillium.”
“Know about it?” Vinson blurted.
“Know about it,” Reeder said, “and be in Russia’s pocket—either as foreign agents or, well, capitalists without a conscience.”
Again, silence settled over the sealed room.
Harrison looked hard at Reeder. “Now that the FBI is officially on board, by way of Special Agent Rogers’ task force, I want you to work with them. You have a history of being a consultant there—no red flags will go up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get to the bottom of all
this . . . and Joe—I need it wrapped up before the first of the week.”
Reeder felt as if the leader of the free world had just punched him in the stomach. “Respectfully, sir, that’s less than five days for an investigation that could take, oh months . . . even years.”
“We don’t have the luxury of time,” Harrison said. “And I’m depending on you to meet my deadline. The cabinet is scheduled for a weekend at Camp David. The only item on the agenda will be whether the United States will issue a declaration of war against Russia.”
And another one to the chin . . .
The President was saying, “The decision can be put off but there’s a real possibility that the United States will face war with Russia. I’m assuming you’d like to help forestall that.”
With a confidence he wished he felt, Reeder said, “Yes, sir, I would. I will.”
The President stood and so did Vinson and Reeder, who shook hands with Harrison. And he even shook hands with the Chief of Staff, who had the look of a man about to go home and build a fallout shelter.
Walking to his car, the sky an ominous, starless dome, Reeder felt the vibration of his cell phone, and checked it: Bishop. He’d given his homicide detective pal the number last night. Within the car, he answered.
“Evening, Detective Bishop.”
“Some pile of dog shit you stepped in this time around.”
“Getting any on you?”
“Naw. It’s you who stepped in it, not me. Remember Pete Woods? The young buck you helped on the Bryson case?”
“Sure,” Reeder said. “Good detective, even if he does look about twelve years old.”
“Well, Woods drew the Chamberlain hit-and-run, and when I casually asked him what evidence he had, he not so casually told me the feds took everything . . . and made it clear the matter, which is to say the murder, wasn’t his problem.”
“How did Pete take that?”
“More gracefully than either of us would. He told them nicely that he should get at least a look-see, and the feds told him just as nicely to screw off—that in the case of a federal death, he had no jurisdiction.”
“Which agency got the evidence?”
“Even that’s more than they were willing to tell Woods. What they did tell him was to butt out.”
Executive Order (Reeder and Rogers Thriller) Page 11