Executive Order (Reeder and Rogers Thriller)

by Max Allan Collins

  Wade smirked at Reeder. “Little man had a busy day.”

  “Sorry about your partner, Reg. He was a damn fine agent.”

  “That he was.” The dark eyes glistened. “And a better friend.”

  “When did you last sleep, Reg?”

  “Do I look like I got that good a memory?”

  Reeder reached a hand up to set it on the big lanky man’s shoulder. “Go sack out on the couch awhile.”

  “What, and dream about somebody double-tappin’ Jerry like he was some Mafia scum? No, Joe, I’ll keep my eyes open, you don’t mind.”

  Reeder nodded. He went over to Miggie at DeMarcus’s desk, Wade following, and asked, “What’s the cop chatter on Bohannon?”

  Miggie said, “Calling it a pro kill. FBI agent with a history of mob investigations.”

  “What was Jerry doing still in front of Ivanek’s? Fisk had called him back to home base.”

  There was something sorrowful about Mig’s shrug. “Guess the killer got him before he left.”

  Reeder asked, “Ever hear back from Jerry about his Yellich text?”

  Miggie shook his head, and Wade sourly offered, “And I still haven’t figured out what he meant.”

  “Hell.”

  Miggie said, “It gets worse.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “Fisk is losing her shit. She wants all of us reporting back to the Hoover Building, like, yesterday.”

  Wade asked, “Could somebody have whispered in her ear about our buddy Lawrence?”

  “We made a few ripples,” Reeder said. “But now we’re making waves.”

  Miggie said, “Fisk says if we’re not all back in her office by five p.m., she’ll start issuing arrest orders.”

  “Not surprising. With such widespread government infiltration, anybody can be pressured. We hear from Hardesy yet?”

  Mig nodded. “Right before you got back. Should be here soon.”

  “Where the hell’s he been? What’s he been up to?”

  A knock at the loft’s door made all three turn, and their prisoner’s head came slowly up, his rest rudely interrupted.

  Miggie said, “Might be you can ask him yourself.”

  The anonymous nine in his hand, Reeder went to the door and checked the monitor—Hardesy was out on the fire-escape landing, moving foot to foot, like he needed a restroom. Reeder let him in, shut and locked the door behind them.

  “You had us worried,” Reeder said.

  Hardesy was in a black windbreaker and black jeans, ready for ninja duty if necessary. “Had to take care of my family. I sent my wife and daughters away—don’t ask where.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  “What have I missed?”

  Taking Hardesy by the arm and starting to guide him toward the sofa in the home-theater area, Reeder said, “You might want to sit down for this, Lucas. You’ve been out of the loop for a while . . .”

  Reeder told him about Nichols’ kidnap and rescue, and Bohannon’s murder, news of which turned Hardesy blister pale.

  “Jesus,” Hardesy said. Then, alarmed, he said, “Where the hell’s Trevor?”

  Miggie said, “At the Hoover Building, apparently. Ignorance is bliss kind of thing.”

  “Hell with that,” Hardesy said, leaning forward. “They’re fucking kidnapping and killing us! Trevor needs to be warned, or gotten the hell out of there.”

  “No,” Reeder said firmly. “He’s behind enemy lines. Warning him is exactly what could kill him.”

  Wade asked, “Then what’s our next play?”

  Reeder said, “We get Nichols somewhere safe for the duration. She’s too traumatized to be helpful.”

  The big man smirked. “What about Sleeping Beauty over there? You’re not really gonna cut him loose.”

  “Don’t know,” Reeder admitted. “Still working that out. Listen, I need to step outside for a bit.”

  The others exchanged curious glances, but nobody asked him what this was about. Everybody knew Joe Reeder had his secrets and his reasons.

  From the landing, he slowly scanned the neighborhood. Mid-afternoon was pretty quiet around here, street people, tenants, merchants, denizens of a poverty-stricken area that got rougher when night fell. He trotted down the wrought-iron stairs, strode behind the building and into the shadowed recession of the tailor shop’s back doorway. He withdrew the phone he’d been given by President Harrison, took in half a bushel or so of air, let it out slowly, and made the call.

  The President said, “Joe.”

  “Sir.”

  “Have you the information I need?”

  “Not all of it, Mr. President. But there is a rogue group within the government. It calls itself the American Patriots Alliance.”

  “I’ve heard that term. I’ve been assured it’s a conspiracy theory from the tinfoil hat crowd.”

  “Well, I’m not wearing one and I can tell you it’s very real. It became necessary for me to recruit help and I’m working with Agent Rogers and her Special Situations team . . . one of whom has been murdered. That brings the total dead to eight.”

  Silence for several endless seconds.

  Then the phone said: “I’m waiting for the helicopter to Camp David now, Joe. How soon can I expect an answer on the identity of the traitor or traitors?”

  “Well, it’s definitely traitors, sir, but the opposition here seems well aware of what I’m up to. Another of our agents was kidnapped, although we were able to free her.”

  “Lord.”

  “Sir, I’ve encountered compromised agents from both the Secret Service and Homeland. I hate to say this, but . . . right now nobody’s watching your back.”

  “Except you, Joe.”

  “Not me, because I’m not there with you. And you will surely hear some things designed to destroy your confidence in me, and of those I’ve recruited.”

  “My confidence in you will not be shaken, Joe. But if you’re asking for more time, there isn’t any. War with Russia, as unthinkable as it may sound, could be just a few days away. Think Cuban Missile Crisis.”

  “I’ll do everything I can, Mr. President. And I’m surrounded by real American patriots.”

  “That’s all I can ask. All I could hope for. Joe, I have to go—the chopper is waiting.” The famous voice turned unexpectedly wry. “I could say something dramatic, I suppose . . . like you’re the thin red-white-and-blue line separating us from all-out war. But you don’t really need that kind of praise, or pressure.”

  Reeder smiled. “No, Mr. President.”

  They clicked off and Reeder went back up to the loft. Rogers had joined Hardesy, Wade, and Miggie in the massive wall screen’s viewing area of black-leather overstuffed seating.

  Rogers was in a chair and Reeder perched himself on its plump arm. “How’s Nichols doing?” he asked.

  “I dressed her head wound,” Rogers said. “She’s really been through it. Exhausted, in shock. I gave her something to help her sleep. That’s what she’s doing now.”

  Reeder touched Rogers’ sleeve. “When was the last time you slept?”

  “Earlier this week,” she said. “You?”

  “Not in recent memory, and I’m afraid it won’t be soon. But let’s take an hour. Everybody pick a chair. Reggie, you take the couch.”

  There was mild objection, but it was easily overruled by Reeder. They each found a place to rest, and Rogers—who’d stayed in that chair—said, “I don’t see any place for you?”

  “I have something to do,” he said.

  Reeder went over to the kitchenette area, where Morris appeared awake; anyway, he was no longer snoring. Reeder removed the accountant’s blindfold, pulled up a chair and sat.

  Very quietly, he said, “Let’s talk about you, Lawrence. And keep your voice down. My friends are trying to catch a few Zs, like you did.”

  The captive wore a hurt expression. “You said you would let me go if I helped you. Did you get your agent back?”

  “We di
d. Thank you for that. But I promised you nothing, just that we’d revisit your situation. That’s what we’re doing now, Lawrence. And I’m afraid, for now, the answer is no.”

  Morris tugged at his restraints. “You bastard! You lying bastard!”

  Reeder raised a lecturing finger. “If you wake my friends up, I’ll let you go, all right—and spread the word you talked.”

  All the energy seeped out of Morris. “Maybe . . . maybe you should do that, and I’ll . . . take my chances . . .”

  “You did help us, and that was a good start. But you’re a tool of a treasonous conspiracy, complicit in half a dozen murders or more. If you’d really rather not die, whether by lethal injection at the government’s hands or by some imaginative means courtesy of your patriotic pals, you could cooperate further.”

  Morris said nothing. He was looking at Reeder but not really.

  “Give me something that matters,” Reeder said. “Want your freedom? Give up those board-member names. Outline their plans in this current scheme. Then testify against them. Be a hero, not a traitor.”

  The prisoner’s voice went whisper-quiet, and Reeder doubted it had anything to do with not disturbing the napping agents on the other side of the room.

  “You have to know,” Morris said, “that I would never live to testify. They’ll kill me. They’ll kill you. All of us. How do you think they’ve been around for seventy-five years without becoming anything but a rumor or another crazy conspiracy theory?”

  “You need to give me those names.”

  “No. If I give you those names, and you act against them, I’m dead. You’re dead. These are not men you can move against. Perhaps you could disrupt what you described as their latest ‘scheme,’ but—”

  “Okay. Let’s table the names. What do you know about what the Alliance is up to right the hell now?”

  Eyes widened, narrowed. “Frankly, not much. Like the Middle Eastern terrorists, the Alliance only provides its cells with that cell’s part of a plan. That way no one can give away the bigger picture upon capture.”

  “Then you have no idea why four CIA agents were sent to Azbekistan to die?”

  “I only know they were supposed to be the spark for a new conflagration with Russia, after years of this tepid President’s inaction.”

  The hair on the back of Reeder’s neck bristled. “Why in God’s name? We’ve been at peace with them for decades.”

  “Complacency and peace are not the same thing, Reeder. Nor is appeasement valid diplomacy. While we’ve been ‘peaceful,’ Boris Krakenin has been rebuilding the Soviet war machine, preparing the Russians for world domination. Harrison has done nothing to protest Russian incursions, or to prepare America for this obvious coming war. We’re soft, lazy, and this is a president who needed to be prodded into doing the right thing.”

  Well, at least Reeder knew what flavor of Kool-Aid their guest preferred.

  “Why kill Amanda Yellich?”

  Morris shrugged. “Above my pay grade. I was told nothing about it before or after. Was she assassinated? If so, it must have been something to do with this weekend.”

  Reeder stiffened. “What about this weekend?”

  “Again, no idea. I just know that everything needed to carry out this current objective—from the Azbekistan sacrifice to today—had to be taken care of by this weekend. Apparently, for some reason, Yellich’s death must’ve been part of that.”

  Reeder recalled Bohannon’s text: *AY not CD*

  Camp David.

  He went back over to the TV area and said, good and loud, “Everybody up!”

  They roused, mostly from deep sleeps, with Wade’s lengthy torso stretching as he said, “What was that, fifteen minutes? Thanks for the sack time, bossman.”

  “It was twenty, and we need to talk. Five minutes for bathroom breaks and rounding up coffee.”

  Everybody did that.

  Reeder stood near Rogers in her comfy chair. Everyone had coffee but Hardesy, who had Diet Coke. All eyes were on Reeder. Every butt was on the edge of its seat.

  Reeder said, “One cabinet member always is held back when the full cabinet is otherwise at one location . . . like it will be at Camp David this weekend.”

  “To protect the line of succession,” Rogers said, matter-of-fact.

  Reeder sent his eyes around touching everybody else’s. “What if Amanda Yellich was that cabinet member?”

  Miggie’s eyes popped. He rose, held up a “wait” forefinger, and went back to his tablet. Within a minute he returned.

  “This you’re going to find interesting,” Miggie said, his eyebrows up. “It was indeed supposed to be Yellich.”

  Everyone exchanged glances.

  Reeder asked, “Replaced by whom?”

  Mig shook his head. “A very tight lid on that, my friend.”

  “So Yellich was the designated survivor,” Hardesy said, frowning. “So what?”

  “So,” Reeder said, “the Camp David trip has been planned for some time, and the Russian invasion just happened to fall the week before. Forcing the President’s hand. Making the already-scheduled Camp David meeting something suddenly of great import. You think that’s a coincidence?”

  “I would say no,” Rogers said dryly.

  Reeder, the wall screen at his back, paced. “For some reason, Amanda not being at Camp David is key.”

  “But she was already not going to be there,” Rogers said. “If the Alliance plan has something to do with Camp David, why kill someone who isn’t even going to be there?”

  Reeder stopped pacing and swung toward his audience. “Let’s go back to why she wasn’t going to be there. She was the cabinet member selected to stay home. To protect the line of succession.”

  “Okay,” Hardesy said, “I get that part. But why swap one stay-at-home cabinet member for another?”

  “Lawrence says the Alliance has people all through government, including at the highest levels—what if one of them is the cabinet member charged with staying away and protecting the line of succession?”

  “Getting them what?” Rogers asked.

  Wade said, “The presidency, if everything shakes down right.”

  “How?” Rogers asked. “You would have to take out a certain number, ahead of that person! Who can guess how many cabinet members would have to die, picked off one by one or maybe in one fell swoop . . .”

  Rogers was staring into nothing now, having trailed off.

  Reeder said, “Exactly right, Patti. And this weekend, everybody’s at the party, from the President on down.”

  The loft fell silent.

  “Crazy,” Hardesy said finally. “Impossible. No way to pull it off.”

  “Mass killings have become a way of life in this country,” Rogers said hollowly. “And you know what they say—if you’re willing to trade your life, you can kill anyone.”

  “At Camp fucking David?” Hardesy exploded. “Get serious—it’s a goddamn fortress.”

  Sitting forward, Wade said, “Joe, Lucas is right—it’s a fortress with the most sophisticated electronic surveillance equipment in the world set up in those surrounding woods, not to mention a small army of Secret Service agents, and a whole mess of Marines. Nobody could get in there. If anybody even tried, they’d see ’em coming from a mile away, easy. Two miles.”

  “There’s more than one way to do this,” Reeder said, and everyone’s eyes were on him. “President Harrison will be in a chopper when he’s coming and going. Same for Vice President Mitchell. Possible there might be a small window where both copters are in the air at the same time. If you’re the Alliance, and you’ve truly infiltrated everywhere, you might know the itinerary and simply blow them both out of the sky with rocket launchers.”

  Reeder’s ominous suggestion hung in the air like stubborn smoke.

  Finally Rogers asked, “But how could anybody get away with that? Or with any kind of assault on Camp David? It’s not like a fame-seeking nutcase walks up and shoots the President and d
ies on the spot—these people want power, not to be apprehended.”

  Reeder’s small smile was large with dread. “Azbekistan has the country on edge, everybody from the man in the street to talk-radio demagogues to United States Senators calling for war over the deaths of those CIA agents. How hard would it be to—”

  “Blame the Russians,” Rogers said, answering her own question.

  “It might well be stage-managed to make that happen,” Reeder said with a shrug. “Russian missiles, Russian arms to take out any motorcade leaving Camp David? Not beyond the realm of possibility.”

  No one spoke for a long time.

  Then Rogers said, “Just to recap, we think a secret society has already killed eight government employees, may be angling to manipulate the line of presidential succession, and is risking starting World War III in the bargain. And there doesn’t appear to be anything we can do about it. That a pretty fair assessment?”

  “I’d say so,” Reeder said. “Of course, you did leave out the part where we have a prisoner who can at least semi-legitimately claim we kidnapped him, and an Assistant Director of the FBI who thinks we’ve gone rogue, and wants to arrest us, which will almost inevitably lead to assassination or prison. So I’d say doing nothing is not an option.”

  “We could call Fisk,” Rogers said.

  Reeder gave her a sharp look. “Do you trust her?”

  “We have to trust somebody.”

  Hardesy said, “Down the rabbit hole, and you want to cozy up to the Queen of Hearts.”

  “Let’s say, sake of argument, that Patti’s right to trust Fisk,” Reeder said to everyone. “What do we tell her? That we’ve kidnapped a GAO accountant who says there’s an alliance of would-be patriots manipulating the government from within? Better add the booby hatch to the assassination-and-prison list.”

  She nodded toward their duct-taped guest. “We have proof.”

  Reeder asked, “But if Lawrence is right, and protecting his life is a virtual impossibility, then what do we have? We need more before we go to Fisk or anybody else.”

  “I don’t disagree,” Rogers said glumly. “So what do we do?”

  Reeder’s head tilted almost imperceptibly. “We put our friend Lawrence on ice somewhere till we can use him. Nichols took a hell of a blow to the head, so we need to get her off the front line—”