“And has he?”
“Yup. And normally Woodsie Owl doesn’t back down from anything. Working that case with you last year must have spooked him some. Now he knows just how deep the doo-doo can get.”
“Bish, he’s a smart kid, and did the right thing. Now do me a favor.”
“Any time.”
“Hang up and forget we had this talk.”
“Fine. As long as I’m allowed to remember one thing.”
“Which is?”
“Which is, you owe me big time.”
They clicked off.
The White House’s massive black gates allowed Reeder passage and he headed north, toward Lafayette Square. Soon he turned west, toward home. He drove leisurely, replaying in his mind the conversation with the President and his Chief of Staff; but even before he got to the roundabout at New Hampshire Avenue, he knew he had a tail. It stayed two cars back but in the same lane—that way if Reeder took a quick right, the tail could follow.
It was a simple Ford Explorer, dark green, a few years old—not some black tinted-glass Interceptor utility, and certainly not a hovering helicopter—much too showy, far too obvious. No, this might be a government car, or an ex-police car. Either one meant reinforced bumpers and more horsepower than his Prius, meaning at least a modest advantage for his new best friend.
Getting Rogers on the burner cell would be the fastest way to find out if the Explorer was a chaperone she’d provided. But also the fastest way for the tail to capture the signal of his burner, and hers.
These people would obviously know where Reeder lived, so trying to lose the tail was pointless, unless he was prepared to go underground immediately. Right now the tail was keeping its distance, though the headlights of other vehicles revealed a driver’s silhouette and no passengers.
Reeder took a direct route home. When he pulled up in front of his white-brick, two-story townhouse on Thirty-Fourth Street Northwest, the tail tucked into a spot two houses back, on the other side of the street. Reeder got out, closed his door, and—on the way to the front steps—walked around behind his vehicle, lending him an inconspicuous view of the Explorer. But a streetlight was nearby and shining down on the car reflectively, giving Reeder no look at all of the driver.
Instead of going across the street to confront the tail, Reeder trotted casually up to his red front door, unlocked it, and slipped in. After quickly dealing with the alarm system on the wall just inside, punching in the seven-digit code, he got his SIG Sauer out of the drawer of the little table beneath the security keypad.
He considered going out the back way, cutting through yards, then coming up behind the Explorer to meet his new friend.
But checking the house, even though the alarm had been on, was the priority. He turned on the living room light, moved into the dining room. Everything seemed quiet, appeared undisturbed. Of course if a team had bugged the place, they would have been pros and, like the Boy Scouts in a forest, would’ve left it as they’d found it. SIG Sauer in hand, barrel up, he edged into the kitchen, elbowing a light on.
At the back door, he considered the strong possibility that the rear of the house was covered, too. If he was the one doing surveillance, he’d sure as hell want someone back there.
After checking the two bedrooms and his home office upstairs, and finding no guests, Reeder returned to the front door. He tossed his suit coat on a chair, then went to the front closet and got his black ABC Security hooded sweatshirt, which he got into. He dropped the expandable baton in his right sweatshirt pocket, and tucked the nine millimeter into the back waistband of his slacks. He pulled the sweatshirt down so that it covered the pistol grip.
He went out the front door, in no hurry, just a guy going out for an evening stroll or maybe to a neighborhood 24-hour joint. This seemed better than heading out the back door into the waiting arms of who-the-hell-knew.
He crossed the street at his townhouse and took the sidewalk in the direction of the parked Explorer. Hands in the sweatshirt pockets, the baton in his right, he figured his brazen approach might spook the tail into taking off, or anyway action of some sort . . . but nothing.
Reeder closed the distance at his evening-stroll pace. As he neared, he couldn’t see past the streetlight reflection on the windshield to get a look at the driver. Since that driver might have a gun aimed at him right now, this was . . . disconcerting.
But killing Chamberlain by hit-and-run was one thing, and shooting a well-known, government-connected figure like Joe Reeder was something else again. He liked his odds. When he got to the vehicle and could see through the side window, the car was empty.
Damn!
His eyes swiftly scanned the street for any sign of another person—nothing. Where the hell had the guy gone? Nearest place for coffee was several blocks down—should he check that? He scanned the area again, more slowly now—it was as if the world had ended, only an occasional distant honk of a car horn to suggest otherwise.
He walked to the next corner, crossing to his own side of the street, and came cautiously back—where could the tail have gone?
Across the street from the start of his block, Reeder ducked into the shadows of the house there. It wasn’t like you tailed somebody just to park a car, unless . . .
. . . a car bomb?
There were car bombs now that could obliterate blocks, and these people were deadly enough for that. But usually they were more surgical—Wooten had taken Yellich out by poison, Wooten himself got liquidated by a sniper’s precise bullet, Chamberlain by hit-and-run. Neat kills, relatively speaking, at least as much as murder is ever “neat.”
So, no—no car bomb.
Had the driver left his vehicle to check in with somebody watching the rear of Reeder’s house?
A possibility. That meant the driver would soon be returning to the Explorer, either to plant himself for surveillance or to vacate the scene. Little attempt, though, had been made to conceal from Reeder that he had been tailed, and would now be subject to surveillance . . .
Somehow, he needed to get his hands on the driver of that Explorer, and interrogate him. Shake it out of him, or goddamn waterboard him in the townhouse bathtub if that was what it took . . .
Keeping to the shadows, Reeder crossed to the northwest corner of Thirty-Fourth Street NW and P Street, then turned west on P toward the alley that ran behind the townhouses. Occasionally, as he crept along, he stopped to listen, but heard nothing. Not even a shoe scraping over concrete, not the rustle of clothing nor the rhythm of heavy breathing.
As he turned into the alley, a fist flew from the darkness.
Reeder couldn’t react quite fast enough and it connected high on his cheek, not on his jaw, as he ducked. Even so, the blow turned the inside of his skull into Fourth of July fireworks, and his balance was gone.
The attacker followed up on that advantage, kicking the unsteady Reeder in the ribs, martial arts–style, sending him to the gravel of the alley. His work apparently done, his escape seemingly assured, the attacker headed back toward the sidewalk.
But Reeder withdrew the baton, extended it with a snap, and whapped the guy across the left calf, getting a yelp out of him and sending him face-first onto the sidewalk with a thump.
Reeder rushed the attacker, who flipped onto his back and sent another kick at Reeder, who dodged it—the attacker’s face remaining a smudge in the night, thanks to darkness and movement. A second kick got Reeder in the right forearm and his fingers popped open and the baton jumped out, landing God knew where. Both men scrambled to their feet and Reeder reached behind him for the pistol in his waistband, but the attacker sent out another kick to Reeder’s ribs, doubling him over.
By the time Reeder regained his breath, the man was sprinting away, likely heading back to the Explorer. Reeder gave chase, but his opponent had too big a head start, and Reeder’s ribs were screaming. Reeder caught up only as the Explorer lurched away from the curb and sped off.
A glimpse of the attacker’s face,
in the side rearview mirror, didn’t really help much. The license plate had been removed—no help there either.
He caught his breath, rubbed his aching ribs, then looked up and down the block. Not a single porch light had come on, the struggle apparently unnoticed. He went back to the scene of the attack, to retrieve the extending baton. He found it quickly, just down the sidewalk. But he also spotted something else, something small, making a reflective glimmer off a streetlight.
It was a lapel pin of a US flag, a common enough touch on men’s lapels in this town—only this one had a tiny camera. The little high-tech thing had been smashed in the struggle.
But Reeder knew what the lapel-flag camera was. And he knew of only one group of people who wore such a pin.
Agents of the United States Secret Service.
“The most terrifying words in the English language are: I’m from the government and I’m here to help.”
Ronald Reagan, fortieth President of the United States of America. Served 1981–1989. Formerly the thirty-third governor of California following a successful screen-acting career.
TEN
Rogers said, “The pin could belong to someone who wants you to believe they’re with the Secret Service.”
Reeder, seated next to her, gave Rogers a blank look that somehow conveyed his contempt for that notion.
They were in the outer office of the Director of the United States Secret Service on the ninth floor of its H Street HQ. According to Reeder, he and Jonathon Briar, the first African American to hold the directorship, had been field agents around the same time.
That didn’t seem to be helping as half an hour of waiting turned into an hour. Of course, Reeder hadn’t left the Secret Service under the best of circumstances.
“I’m just saying,” she said, “that some unknown Secret Service agent jumping you isn’t the only possible explanation.”
“You saw the ID number on the back. He might as well have signed it Secret Service.”
Rogers took air in, let it out, then rose and went to the desk, where a brunette guardian of the gates was giving her computer the attention they weren’t getting, and said, “Excuse me?”
The woman looked up, narrow-faced if attractive with scant makeup, her dark gray suit and midnight blouse nice enough for Rogers to wonder how much better the SS must pay than the FBI. The guardian’s eyes, a lighter gray than her apparel, met Rogers’ without a word. That was apparently all the response an FBI agent merited.
“We had an appointment,” Rogers said. “It’s been over an hour.”
“The appointment was made only this morning.”
“You do know who Mr. Reeder is?”
The guardian nodded, about as impressed as a maître d’ at a really expensive restaurant. “Yes, and I told Mr. Reeder earlier, on the phone, that I would do my best to squeeze him in.”
“There’s no one else out here.”
“The Director is in conference.”
Getting that principal’s office feeling again, Rogers nodded and dragged back to her seat.
Five more minutes passed and the Director’s office door opened and a tall male figure emerged—that same GAO drone in wire-frames and a Men’s Wearhouse suit who she’d seen at Fisk’s office. This time Rogers didn’t rate the stranger’s nod of admission that she was a human being. Even the famous Joe Reeder got ignored.
Rogers whispered, “Conference must be over. We have to be next.”
Reeder didn’t give her a nod, either.
But fifteen minutes later he got up and strode to the Director’s door.
The assistant said, “Mr. Reeder—you can’t simply—”
But he did, with Rogers following right after, pausing only to give the guardian a condescending smile before shutting herself and Reeder inside.
Fiftyish Director Jonathon Briar, broad-faced on a muscular mid-range frame, his navy suit with red-and-white tie blatantly patriotic, actually started a bit when they came in. To the right as they entered, Briar was seated behind a black slab that was more table than desk, two modern beige visitor’s chairs opposite, a looming framed portrait of President Harrison on the wall behind him. The large, stark office seemed to be keeping as many secrets as the Service itself. To the left was a meeting area with a low-slung black slab table and various modern but comfortable-looking chairs.
“Jesus, Peep,” Briar blustered. “You know better than this!”
Reeder stood at the edge of the desk-thing and stared down at Director Briar.
“You’re right, Jon,” Reeder said. “I should have barged in here the moment your last guest left. I’m getting complacent.”
Reeder was standing between the two visitor’s chairs and Rogers was just behind the one to Reeder’s left. Briar’s eyes met hers and narrowed.
Rogers held up her credentials, but Briar said, “I know who you are, Agent Rogers. Do you mind, Peep, telling me what this is about? Make it quick—I have another meeting in ten minutes.”
“Let them wait an hour,” Reeder said, and tossed a small plastic evidence bag with the smashed pin in it onto Briar’s desk. Briar was wearing his own, somewhat smaller lapel flag pin—did it come equipped with a camera, too?
Then Reeder lowered himself into one of the visitor’s chairs and waved Rogers into the other.
Briar stared at the smashed pin in the bag. “Where did you get that?”
“It fell off someone who attacked me last night, not far from my home. I can show you the bruises on my ribs if you’re interested. You’ll note that that’s an American flag camera pin, a mangled one I grant you.”
“Homeland uses these,” Briar said, with a shrug. “Agent Rogers will tell you they’re not unknown to the Bureau, as well, and several other agencies.”
Reeder reached over and flipped the evidence bag. “Do I have to remind you, Jon, that the SS is the only one who uses that form of ID number?”
“That’s not one of ours,” Briar said without looking at it.
“It’s one of yours, all right. And I want to know who this one belongs to.”
Briar smirked mirthlessly. “Has procedure changed, Peep, since you worked here? You know damn well that if an agent loses one of these, he or she is required to report it immediately. No one has.”
“Why, do you check the reports yourself?”
“Actually, yes. Every day. Are we done here?”
Rogers asked, “Director Briar, who was it that left this office before we came in? In the wire-framed glasses?”
The Director said, “He’s with the GAO. Nothing that concerns you.”
“Would he have a name, sir?”
Briar said, “That’s not information I’m prepared to share with you, Agent Rogers. You seem to have the Secret Service confused with the Smithsonian.”
Reeder gave the Director a long, hard look, then said, “Jon, we were never friends—we never shared duty together. But we were friendly enough, and I’ve always respected you. When I tell you that I was attacked by someone, last night, who lost a Secret Service pin in the process, doesn’t that raise any level of interest?”
Briar gave the evidence bag the barest look. “That’s not our pin. What you’re reporting is not a Secret Service matter. You might try the DC police, or because that pin probably originated with some government agency, you could discuss it with your FBI colleague, Agent Rogers, here.”
Reeder rose. “Thanks for the advice, Jon. It’s nice to know that all my years with the Service earned me so much support.”
Briar looked up coldly at the former agent. “Sarcasm doesn’t really suit you, Peep. But let me suggest something. If that pin did belong to a Secret Service agent . . . and if you were attacked by him . . . someone above my pay grade would have to have put it in motion.”
Reeder’s gaze was unblinking. “Would have had to put you in motion, you mean.”
“Assume what you like. But I would suggest you’re treading on some important toes. As you say, we weren’t friends,
Peep, but we were friendly enough for me to suggest that whatever you’re up to . . . you may want to find a new hobby.”
“Noted,” Reeder said, and reached for the bag with the pin, but Briar laid a hand on it.
“I’ll hold onto that for you,” the Director said.
Reeder gave Briar an awful smile. “That’s not yours, remember?”
Rogers stood and said, “But it is evidence in an ongoing federal investigation, Director. With all due respect, please remove your hand.”
Briar thought about that for a good ten seconds, then nodded, and let Reeder take the bag.
In the corridor, Rogers asked, “What the hell was that?”
“Briar’s a decent enough director,” Reeder said. “Anyway, he was a good agent. There’s a reason he didn’t cooperate with us.”
“Because he’s covering his own ass?”
“That may be part of it. Mostly, he’s scared.”
Rogers studied that unreadable face and then asked, “What does it take to scare the Director of the Secret Service?”
“Generally not something as small as that pin.”
“That GAO guy is who I saw coming out of Fisk’s office the other day. She said he was there on budgetary matters.”
Reeder raised an eyebrow. “So?”
“Joe, when I got to the AD’s office yesterday, he was there. Already there! What’s he doing . . . tailing us?”
Reeder thought for a moment, then said, “Worse.”
“How do you mean, worse?”
“He’s out ahead of us.”
Rogers was mulling that as they headed for the elevators, passing various agents and office workers. The older agents sometimes exchanged nods with Reeder, and younger ones all seemed to be whispering to companions, Is that Joe Reeder? Really Joe Reeder?
She was about to push the DOWN button when a male hand butted in from behind them and pushed it for her. She turned to look and there he was—the GAO drone.
The drone politely gestured for Rogers to get on first, and then did the same with Reeder, who was giving the man a blank look that disguised alarm bells going off.
Executive Order (Reeder and Rogers Thriller) Page 12