Executive Order (Reeder and Rogers Thriller)

by Max Allan Collins

  “Nope.”

  “Can you give me the security code to her building?”

  “Give me a second.”

  Keystrokes clicked through the phone, then Miggie gave Reeder the requested numbers.

  “Thanks,” Reeder said. “You’ll hear from us soon.”

  Reeder ended the call.

  He and Rogers moved through the outer lobby, passing the wall of mailboxes and a potted plant that did not really bring the Great Outdoors inside.

  Next to the security door, a keypad was waiting for Reeder to punch in the code. The door buzzed open.

  The interior lobby, unpopulated at this hour, had a little more space than the outer one, accommodating two potted plants, a couple of overstuffed chairs, and one elevator.

  Soon they were on Nichols’ floor, moving down the corridor, guns drawn. Reeder kept behind Rogers as she moved down the otherwise empty hall toward the last door on the right.

  Not surprisingly, Nichols’ door was locked. Rogers knocked and got no response. She tried again—nothing. They traded a look, and Reeder whispered, “You do the honors,” and she nodded and withdrew a small pouch of lock picks from a pocket.

  They were inside in well under a minute. The living room was dark, and Reeder hit the lights—the place was as stylish as Nichols herself, ultramodern, blacks and browns and whites. Nothing looked disturbed. They traded rooms and yells of “Clear!”

  No Nichols.

  No sign of her.

  Reeder had fought the thought that they might find her dead in here, and that she wasn’t, well, that was a relief, at least.

  Rogers just behind him, Reeder turned on the overhead light in the galley kitchen, and they both saw it at once—a sheet of copy-size paper on top of the stove.

  One oversized computer-printed word, red ink—COLLATERAL.

  Reeder shook his head. “Jesus.”

  Rogers got her cell out, called Miggie, and reported what they’d found.

  She told him, “Have Bohannon stop by Ivanek’s. If Trevor’s not home, have Jerry stake out the place.”

  “You got it.”

  “And pull Wade in. Give him the Batcave directions. We need reinforcements.”

  “Sounding like it.”

  “Meantime, while we’re headed back to you, round up the security video from Anne’s building. Can you do that?”

  “I can do that,” Miggie said, and clicked off.

  Reeder was leaning against a counter. He said to her, “Did you see one thing out of place? Any damn thing at all?”

  “No.”

  “Whoever took her got her by surprise. Got the drop on her.”

  “Joe, they could have taken her any time after Hardesy delivered her that burner phone. No one’s heard from her since.”

  He sighed deep. “Let’s hope Bohannon gets to Ivanek in time.”

  He glanced at the one-word note, finding one small scrap of solace.

  At least COLLATERAL wasn’t followed by DAMAGE.

  “How far you can go without destroying from within what you are trying to defend from without?”

  Dwight D. Eisenhower, thirty-fourth President of the United States of America. Served 1953–1961. Former five-star general, Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces in World War II.

  TWELVE

  Lawrence Morris sat at the long narrow table in the expansive private dining room of the Federalist Club on F Street. He had been here a few times, to deliver messages, but had never been admitted past the front vestibule. Tonight, he perched among the chosen, ready to deliver his report when the chairman called upon him.

  The chamber, with its rich oak paneling and dark heavy furnishings, seemed a throwback to a day when industrialists openly ruled the nation from behind closed doors. The same was true for the formal table settings with their bone china, impossibly white dinnerware with intricate hand-painted cherry blossoms. Baccarat crystal water glasses, Reed & Barton sterling silverware, hand-embroidered table linen, the outlay fairly dazzled Morris. He knew, for example, that these napkins ran over $150 each, which meant that for tonight’s dinner with the six-body board, plus the chairman, plus Morris himself, brought the napkin cost alone to $1,200. Toss in the fine tablecloth, and linens, and it tallied more than the price of his first car. (Working as he did in the Government Accountability Office, knowing what things cost was Morris’s specialty.)

  The male staff wore tuxedos, the females old-fashioned maid-uniform livery. Whenever staff entered the room, all conversation stopped, and—other than giving orders or responding to questions from waiters—the board members remained silent until they were alone again.

  With dessert done, and coffee served, the liveried army retreated to the kitchen. The chairman waited a full minute, then tapped his knife against his water glass, just once.

  Every eye went to Senator Wilson Blount, his sharp light blue eyes peering from above the low-riding tortoiseshell glasses, his silvery blond hair barbershop perfect despite the late hour. Even before that single tap of metal on glass, all here were already under his sway. The chairman of the American Patriots Alliance led the way of this joint effort to restore the United States from “the sniveling weakling it had become,” as Blount himself sometimes explained it, “to its rightful place as the world’s preeminent superpower.”

  “We all know why we’re here, gentlemen,” Blount said in his lilting Tennessee accent.

  The six board members nodded as one.

  Their attire varied in style but not in monetary value—Morris was out of his depth as to the exact price of their wardrobe (tailored suits rarely came up at the GAO). And admittedly he felt somewhat self-conscious in his own Men’s Wearhouse number. But actually, Blount’s off-the-rack brown suit, which fit his contrived folksy persona, may have cost even less.

  Morris recognized two of the board, powerful men with national reputations who occasionally made it into the media—a major hotelier from New Jersey, and a trucking magnate from Wisconsin. The other four Morris drew a blank on, though that was hardly surprising. Anonymity was something the Alliance board cultivated.

  They were all low-profile players now, with the one exception—an individual who had unwisely sought the political limelight—conveniently deceased. When the man had refused to step back in line with the Alliance’s plans for the greater good, Senator Blount and the board simply distanced themselves from him. No further action was taken, since the natural course of events had resolved the situation.

  The chairman swung his eyes toward Morris and so did everyone else. “Your report, sir, if you please.”

  Morris cleared his throat and stood, nodding to one and all, allowing a tiny polite smile to flicker. Blount had personally given Morris his task and, other than the Senator himself, no one in the room would have the slightest idea of his identity, foot soldier that he was.

  Which was fine with Morris. He believed in the American Patriots Alliance’s motto: Serve Country, Not Self. Someday that would be on currency. What he and all of the loyalists enacted was part of their overall mission to restore the greatness that President Harrison had so recklessly squandered.

  Still, this was a chance to make an impression, to demonstrate his value to the movement. Not that he had any illusion that a regular chair at this table might become his—the money and power here were out of his reach. But he would happily serve.

  He said, in a firm voice that disguised his unease, “I met with Joe Reeder and Special Agent Patti Rogers after their meeting with the Director at the Secret Service. As instructed, I proffered both carrot and stick.”

  “And their response?” the chairman asked.

  “As you predicted, sir, they were not receptive to the carrot . . . but somewhat so to the stick. They did seem to have a sense of the precariousness of their situation—the implications of what further inquiry by them might cost.”

  “Reeder has two weaknesses,” came the folksy drawl. “His pride and what we might call his . . . ‘family.’”


  Morris asked, “His ex-wife and his daughter, sir?”

  “No. They are out of reach for the moment. Efforts are being made to find them, but Mr. Reeder is not a man without his own resources.”

  Morris leaned a hand on the linen-covered tabletop. “Reeder betrayed emotion, sir. I realize his reputation is one of rather . . . restrained behavior and self-expression. But he laid hands on me—twice.”

  The other eyes at the table were moving from the chairman to Morris and back again, as the two men exchanged remarks in a tennis-match fashion.

  “Joseph Reeder,” drawled Blount, “is such a self-righteous soul that the very idea of his character bein’ besmirched likely gives him physical pain . . . but he would sooner endure that than allow anything untoward to happen to those he cares about.”

  “Sir, you . . . you don’t refer to his ex-wife and child?”

  “Well, they’re the major part of the mix, of course. But he’s become attached to this agent, this Rogers woman. I don’t believe it’s a sexual relationship. Call it . . . father-and-daughter, or big-brother-and-little-sister. However you might characterize it, she is important to him. So are those he’s worked with at the FBI, as a consultant—the so-called Special Situations Task Force.”

  Morris nodded, understanding the weak spot the chairman intended to penetrate.

  Blount asked, “Did our people track the pair after they left the Secret Service buildin’?”

  Morris offered an apologetic open-handed gesture. “I’m afraid, sir, within minutes, they went off the grid. If we find them . . . that is when we find them . . . what action do we take?”

  The chairman leaned back in a chair taller than he was. “For now, nothin’—we’ll let ’em flail and flounder.”

  “Sir.”

  “They’re tryin’ to find a way to keep out of harm’s way and yet contin-yuh their investigation at the one-and-the-same time. Eventually they will come to perceive the hopelessness of that goal.”

  “Sir, Reeder is a top investigator, and so is that FBI female.”

  Holding up a hand, the chairman said, “Keep your powder dry, my friend, and wait. They have not yet grasped the untenable nature of their position. They will contin-yuh to flail around for a time, likely gettin’ nowhere a’tall.” Blount pointed a thick forefinger at Morris. “But if they get close, we will have no choice but to shut them the hell down. Do you follow?”

  Morris nodded. He followed, all right.

  These men, the patriots on the board, were willing to make such sacrifices to return America to its greatness. A soldier kills in battle, at the direction of generals. The four CIA agents and Secretary Yellich had not been murdered; they were casualties of the cause.

  For something as far-reaching as the ongoing operation, individuals would occasionally have to be sacrificed—for the greater good. That was at the core of the American Patriots Alliance.

  Patrick Reitz, the trucking magnate—a heavy man with receding dark hair and a lizard’s hooded eyes—shook his head. “Why not eliminate them now? Aren’t they a genuine threat to our current goal?”

  The chairman’s glance at Reitz had steel in it. “You are aware, my friend, that six government employees are already fatalities.”

  “Nothing wrong with your math, Mr. Chairman. Only . . . why not two more?”

  Blount’s intake of breath seemed to consume half the air in the room; when he let it out, nearby napkins rustled. “You would have us liquidate an FBI agent, a female one at that, who has generated positive publicity for the Justice Department in recent years? Then there’s the national hero who saved one president’s life and now is more popular than another one.”

  “Accidents do happen,” Reitz said.

  The chairman shook his head; there was a finality about it. “Too many red flags have already gone up for us to risk such behavior. Their deaths would bring more questions, more agents. But, yes, we can and will deal with these two, if necessary. For now, we have control of the situation. Killing that pair would relinquish our control. Doesn’t that make sense, gentlemen?”

  Morris found himself nodding. To his surprise, so was Reitz, and the rest of the board, too.

  “That’ll be all for you this evenin’,” Blount said to the GAO man pleasantly.

  Then no one, not even the chairman himself, spoke a word as Morris rose and left like another member of the club’s staff, just not as well dressed. He slipped out the door, leaving behind the muffled sounds of the meeting continuing without him.

  Alone on F Street, Morris felt he’d done well tonight. The chairman appeared impressed, the other board members, too. Big things were in the air, and in his future, and he was too exhilarated to want the night to end.

  He didn’t have a significant other in his life right now, and hadn’t for a while—these days, he just didn’t have time. But tonight, as on many nights, he wanted female company.

  He would use (as he had so many times) Aphrodite’s, a discreet escort service that could be reached only by text message—911 for a blonde, 912 for a brunette, 913 redhead, 914 Asian girl, 915 black and so on. No haggling, and no hags—these women were all attractive and bright, fulfilling a man’s desire like delicious items on a fine restaurant’s menu.

  Ducking into the recession of a doorway, Morris on his phone sent his message: *911, usual, 30 minutes*.

  “Usual” meant the bar within the Hotel Mont Blanc, which happily was just three blocks away. The management knew him and looked the other way; he was a good customer, two or even three nights a week at his most ravenous. And tonight he would be there in plenty of time for his after-dinner delight.

  The Mont Blanc, which occupied a former post office, was a reasonably priced hotel by DC standards, rooms in the four-hundred range. Kepler’s, the bar off the lobby, was a plushly appointed, dark-wood-and-red-leather establishment catering for the most part to the hotel’s guests and foreign dignitaries—a good place for Morris to meet his purchased conquest, with little chance of running into anyone he knew.

  They would go up to his room after a couple of drinks, have their romp, then Miss 911 would be sent on her way, unless of course he felt he could manage seconds, with room service cocktails tiding them over till he was able. He would chat with them about their lives, though most would lie to him (college girls—right!), and he would spin his own tale of high government service that had nothing to do with his reality at the GAO.

  He checked in, got his key, then turned his attention to Kepler’s. Entering the bar, he found it decidedly underpopulated, just as he’d expected. Just as he’d hoped. Three men at a table, their suits worthy of the board members with whom he’d recently dined, were speaking with an apparent Kuwaiti in traditional kandura with a one-button collar and a ghotra worn in cobra style. Oil business, most likely.

  At another table, a couple, possibly tourists, were in close conversation. Behind the oak counter, a tall African American bartender in a white tuxedo shirt and black tie smiled at Morris, who sat down at the bar.

  The bartender brought Morris a napkin, and Morris ordered a Johnnie Walker Blue.

  The bartender’s practiced smile became a genuine grin as he poured. “Man knows his Scotch.”

  Morris sipped it.

  “Not your first time here,” the bartender said.

  “No.”

  “Thought you looked familiar.”

  “Yeah. I remember you, too.” Vaguely.

  Motion at the entry, caught from the corner of an eye, turned Morris that way. A blonde, a pretty blonde in a form-fitting red dress, obvious but enticing, here already! Aphrodite’s didn’t fool around.

  She walked right up to him with fluid confidence and eyed the Johnnie Walker, licking lipsticked lips and saying, “That looks good. Could I have some?”

  Morris nodded and waved for the bartender to bring another drink. “Glad to. I’m Lawrence. And you are . . . ?”

  “Diane,” she said, which was the name the confirmation text fro
m Aphrodite’s had promised.

  “Pull up a chair, Diane.”

  The blonde smiled, displaying pretty white teeth, and slipped up onto the stool beside him. Her dark eyes were bright, despite the dim light. Those long legs and that nice rack were fine even for Aphrodite’s buffet.

  They talked for a while. She was in college—grad school, and she was old enough for that to be true. He told her all about working as the aide to a well-known senator. She pretended to be impressed, just as he had pretended to believe her college crap.

  “You know,” Diane said, “it’s not often a girl gets the chance to spend an evening like this with . . . don’t get me wrong . . . someone she would’ve spent it with anyway.”

  He gave her a sly smile. “Well, you don’t have to charge me.”

  She shrugged, smiling in a chin-crinkly way. “Not up to me, I’m afraid. Aphrodite’s has your Visa on file, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “But I tell you what. Things go nicely, I won’t let you leave me that nice cash tip you’re planning to.”

  He laughed a little. “That’s nice of you. Ready to go upstairs and have some fun?”

  “One more little drink, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  They had that drink and then were walking arm in arm across the lobby when he stumbled a little.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  “That . . . that second shot isn’t settling right.”

  “Let’s get you up to the room.”

  They were at the elevators now. She was propping him up, strong for a girl, just using one arm as her other hand extended to push the DOWN button.

  “No,” Morris said, “up.”

  The doors opened onto an empty car and she hauled him in and hit the door-close button, enclosing them. It took that long for Morris to know he’d been had. He flailed at the woman, whose expression was cold, and he got a fistful of hair.

  Then he had a blonde wig in his hand.

  “No,” the 911’s male voice said, “you’re going down.”

  Rogers had been furious at first, when Reeder suggested enlisting Kevin for this duty. But obviously she couldn’t play the role since the drone knew her all too well, and Nichols was in the hands of the enemy, so . . .