Executive Order (Reeder and Rogers Thriller)

by Max Allan Collins

  Only Hardesy had been hit, and he was hobbling along with a grin and an assist from Wade, basically only winded from the blow to his vest. Reeder abandoned his weapon to run to the President. There was blood all over Harrison’s back.

  “Mr. President!” Reeder shouted, and knelt by the leader of the free world . . .

  . . . who pushed himself up with one hand, like he was doing a show-off push-up, and half-smiled at Reeder.

  “I guess that’s another president you saved,” he said. “You’d do anything for a Medal of Freedom, wouldn’t you?”

  Rogers was right there, too, still carrying the AR-15 in both hands. “Is he all right?”

  “Fine,” Reeder said, helping Harrison to his feet. “It’s not his blood.”

  Hardesy leaned against a wall while Wade went around checking what proved to be corpses.

  “Poor misguided bastards,” Wade said.

  The coppery smell of blood mingled with the stench of bodies evacuating themselves at death. Victory had been complete, but the victors were all sick to their stomachs.

  “Was that a bluff, Joe?” she asked him. “About the cabinet being sequestered in the bunker?”

  “I said I didn’t bluff,” he said. “No, that was part of the plan all along. They’re quite safe. No offense, Patti, but no one needed that knowledge but me . . . Lucas, Wade! Guard the entrance. There may be more of these insurgent pricks around.”

  The President moved with incredible confidence, dignity, and fluidity to the control desk where he sounded an alarm, and then got on the hotline phone and ordered up Marines to come to Raven Rock.

  Reeder went to him and said, “We need to stay alert, sir—those Marines you summoned could include Alliance infiltrators.”

  The President’s puffy smile had melancholy in it. “My guess is that, considering the way things have gone, any traitors will fade back into the woodwork and behave themselves, for now at least. When we get back to DC, I’ll be starting an investigation into every agency of government. Some will call it a witch hunt, I’m sure . . . but this time we have actual witches, don’t we?”

  “We do. And the head warlock is Senator Wilson Blount.”

  Harrison sighed. “That’s my impression, as well. But do we have any proof that links him to this attempted coup? He’s a powerful man, Joe, with powerful friends.”

  “And at least one very powerful enemy, sir. Yourself. As you know, I never did come up with the name of the man who betrayed our four agents. If our late friend over there can be believed, that person is already dead, and we should be able to determine his identity. But I’d like your blessing, your mandate, to go after Blount as best I can.”

  “Done.”

  Reeder glanced around at the now bustling chamber. “And I believe, until we have done the most thorough security and background checks possible on the Secret Service here at Camp David, you should allow Agent Rogers, her two agents, and myself to serve as an ad hoc presidential detail.”

  “Also done.”

  “We can’t leave here, by helicopter anyway, until the threat of a rocket launcher is dealt with. Can you put together a team of Marines that you trust, to comb the surrounding woods—inside and outside of the compound—to deal with that threat?”

  The President’s half-smile was self-deprecating. “I didn’t do so well choosing a Secret Service agent to count on.”

  “I know. But take your best shot. We’ll be here at your side. In the meantime, I would like your permission to have two DC cops I trust, Carl Bishop and Pete Woods, to come out and give you and the Vice President rides. Won’t be a limo, though.”

  Harrison grinned, full on. “I’ll survive.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  A presidential hand settled on Reeder’s shoulder. “And, Joe—as soon as you and your friends can get me back to the White House, I’ll be letting the Russian premier know that he and his people can get their collective ass out of Azbekistan or this attempted coup will be linked to them big-time in the media. And, boy, would that fire up the American people.”

  “Kind of would.”

  Rogers, overhearing all this, said to Reeder, “When we first get a chance, I’d like to drop by and see AD Fisk.”

  His expression was typically unreadable, but his words weren’t: “Thought you might.”

  “You can fool all the people some of the time, and some of the people all the time, but you cannot fool all the people all the time.”

  Abraham Lincoln, sixteenth President of the United States of America. Served 1861–1865. President during the Civil War.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Within minutes of the firefight and rescue of the President, Reeder reported in to Miggie Altuve.

  “You and Patti are miracle workers,” Mig’s voice said.

  “Same back at ya. How are the supplies in the cabin?”

  “Enough for several months. Cupboard of canned goods, freezer fully stocked. Why?”

  “You need to stay put. When I’m able, I’ll send reinforcements, but for now, remember—you have precious damn cargo.”

  “Our house guest you mean? The charming Lawrence Morris?”

  “The very guy. A lot’s riding on him—he’s our most direct evidence against Wilson Blount.”

  “We’ll need more.”

  “There’ll be plenty more, but we need Morris to build on. You and Anne sit on him—but gently. He’s our new best friend.”

  Miggie didn’t sound so sure: “He says under no circumstances will he testify. That he’s given you all the help he ever will, and that you and he have a deal that you need to honor.”

  “Let him know the presidential coup has been exposed and violently quashed. Let him think about which side of that he wants to come down on.”

  “Okay. I assume we’re talking immunity and WitSec.”

  “Oh yeah. Tell him we’re going to buy him contact lenses and, when his hair grows out, get him dyed and styled.”

  Miggie laughed. “He’s already got some five o’clock shadow going on that noggin.”

  “Hang in. I’ll be in touch.”

  The Marines quickly had the compound under control, and if any of them were Alliance, they faded back and fell into line as predicted. Two Soviet rocket launchers, in the forest just outside the security net, were taken out by more Marines; neither of the two mercenaries manning them survived, which was both a pity and just fine with Reeder.

  The cabinet gladly vacated the nuclear bunker at the President’s command and the members were helicoptered out two at a time, an effort that took several hours.

  By ten p.m., Pete Woods in a fresh Ford and Carl Bishop in his black Chevy had whisked away the President and Vice President, with Hardesy and Wade riding along respectively. Not your usual presidential motorcade, but with the Secret Service and God-knew-who-else compromised, protocol be damned.

  Before the President left the compound, however, he made a call to the Director of the FBI and instructed him to rescind immediately the arrest warrants on Reeder, Rogers, and the surviving members of her unit.

  For now, a media blackout had descended and even intra-government reports were kept at a minimum. What would be told to the public would be discussed and controlled beforehand, and—with various agencies infiltrated by the Alliance—much of it would be marked classified and all of it strictly managed.

  Still in commando camo, Reeder and Rogers arrived in Washington, DC, finding its quiet almost unsettling, as if the town had slept through its own near demise . . . and hadn’t it? He drove her to her apartment, where she picked up a change of clothes, and then to his townhouse, where she took the spare bedroom. This was over, the coup if not the greater threat, but they wanted to be near each other tonight—each other, and their guns. As with an earthquake, Reeder was prepared to deal with aftershocks.

  Before finally giving in to their exhaustion, they sat at his kitchen table in robes, like an old married couple, and had some chamomile tea. Morning now, technically
at least, but still dark out there.

  “I should call Kevin,” she said.

  “Not just now. I’m not fetching Amy and Melanie yet, either, or their two undeserving males. There could be some immediate retaliation, and anyway, I don’t think I’ll sleep soundly till that bastard Blount is in custody.”

  “Meaning the Senator, not the son.”

  “The son will be our ally, I think. He may even testify, given what happened today. Right now we have only Lawrence Morris as a witness. But we need another.”

  “Who?”

  “Your boss and mentor, Margery Fisk, Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  She’d started frowning and shaking her head halfway through that. “No, no, no . . . not a witness. A suspect. No, not a suspect, a perp!”

  “You blame her for Jerry Bohannon’s murder, I take it.”

  “And Trevor Ivanek’s, and Anne’s kidnapping, and—”

  “We don’t know that. She is almost certainly compromised, but to what degree, we can’t be sure. Do you think she’s capable of fingering two of her own people for death?”

  Her smirk bore no humor at all. “Who the hell knows what anybody is capable of in this thing?”

  “Good point. You know what I think?”

  “What do you think?”

  “We should talk to her.”

  The next morning, eight a.m. Sunday, as arranged, they found Margery Fisk waiting for them at a table in the Starbucks on Wisconsin Avenue NW. Most of the business seemed to be grab-and-go, the tables on either side of Fisk vacant.

  She looked small and not at all the executive in navy-blue sweats and white running shoes; her hair was freshly washed and back in a ponytail, making her look young unless you really looked.

  The table was at the side window, with just three chairs. They went through the line—dark roast for Reeder, medium for Rogers, cream for both—then he took the chair across from Fisk, Rogers the one next to her.

  “Public place, as requested,” Reeder said.

  Fisk’s smile was small and bitter. “I thought it might keep me from getting shot.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t sit by the window.” He shrugged. “But you’re not mob and this isn’t a pasta joint. Should be fine. Or are you thinking of how Patti here may be feeling about you now?”

  The AD’s eyes stayed on Reeder. “How did you get my home number, anyway?”

  “We have our ways.” Miggie Altuve being most of them. “So here’s the basic program. You tell us everything you know and perhaps you don’t face treason charges, which by the way would almost certainly mean execution . . . Can I get you another coffee? I see your cup is empty.”

  Bleak amusement touched her lips. “I’m fine. Thanks for your thoughtfulness, though.”

  Rogers, coldly but with a tremor in her voice, asked, “How long have you been Alliance?”

  Fisk shook her head. “I’m not Alliance and I never have been.”

  Reeder said, “We’re getting off to a bad start.”

  Fisk said, “I don’t deny complicity in this thing. But the American Patriots Alliance . . . isn’t that what they call themselves? . . . I thought was just National Enquirer nonsense.”

  Eyes hooded, Rogers said, “I saw Lawrence Morris leaving your office.”

  “By the way,” Reeder said pleasantly, “Lawrence is in our custody. So we have a kind of baseline for comparison, here.”

  Fisk said, “I think I will take another coffee.”

  Reeder got it for her.

  Then, settling across from her again, he said, “You were saying?”

  “Morris has probably already told you this. He came around and said if I cooperated with ‘certain people’ in government, who were not fans of President Harrison, I would be next in line for the Director’s chair.”

  “The next president would appoint you.”

  She nodded.

  “What did they want from you?”

  Tiny shrug. “What they had in store for me over the long haul, I couldn’t say. First order of business was to assign the Yellich death to the Special Situations Task Force.”

  Reeder and Rogers exchanged glances.

  Reeder said, “To keep tabs on the unit.”

  Fisk nodded again, sipped her coffee; it was too hot.

  Reeder said, “What did you tell Morris?”

  “I told him no.”

  “Bullshit,” Rogers said.

  “I did tell him no.” Fisk sighed. “That was before Senator Blount called me.”

  Reeder straightened; Rogers, too.

  He asked, “When was this?”

  “Right there with Morris in the office, sitting across from me. How he signaled that old bastard I have no idea. But suddenly there was that buttermilk Southern drawl in my ear.”

  Reeder frowned. “Threatening you?”

  “Not exactly. Not directly. It was as if he was an old friend checking in with me. Understand, I had met with the Senator on occasion and dealt with him on some matters—a powerful man like that gets around, and gets his way. But suddenly we were old friends.”

  “How so?”

  Her eyes closed. Tight. “He talked to me about my husband and the work he does at his company, and how distressing it was that accidents occurred sometimes in the plant. He mentioned my son in college at Georgetown and my daughter at NYU and congratulated me on how fine they were, what outstanding young people, but wondered how I could bear having them live in such dangerous cities where ‘any terrible thing’ might happen.”

  “A Southern-fried threat.”

  Her eyes opened and she trained their near blackness on Reeder. “You have a daughter, Mr. Reeder. How would you have reacted?”

  “I’d have tracked him down and beaten him to death. But that’s just me.”

  Fisk stared at the table. “It was a phone call that—had it been recorded, and perhaps it was—might seem innocuous as a Christmas card. But the meaning was clear. I could rise to the directorship, or I could wonder every damn day about the safety of those I love. That’s what they call a Hobson’s choice, isn’t it?”

  Rogers said, “And when they murdered Jerry Bohannon, you made a choice, too, didn’t you? To betray everything your office stands for! And what’s a little kidnapping of one of your people? Or a sniper taking Trevor Ivanek out?”

  Fisk was immobile, not trembling at all. But tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

  “I had no idea,” she said, “things would go so far.”

  Reeder said, “Why not? They’d already killed Amanda Yellich.”

  “In . . . in retrospect, I realized I’d . . . enabled Agent Bohannon’s murder. But I had no contact person—Morris dropped out of sight, no more phone calls came from Senator Blount, and I was sidelined in this awful game. When I put out the apprehend order on the two of you, and everyone else on your team, my thought was to pull you in where I might protect you.”

  “The operative word,” Rogers said, “being ‘might.’”

  Fisk’s shoulders went slowly up and down. “If you don’t believe that, there’s nothing I can say or do.”

  “You’re wrong,” Reeder said. “There is something.”

  Her eyes lifted to his. “I’m listening.”

  “You cooperate. Fully.”

  Fisk nodded.

  “For now, you retain your office as Assistant Director. You report back to me, or someone else designated by the President, any contact you have with Alliance conspirators. They’ll be running scared now, so they may reveal themselves either directly or inadvertently.”

  Fisk nodded.

  “Despite the innocuous surface of Blount’s words, they constitute a threat. We may be able to track the way Morris signaled the Senator to make that call—hell, Morris will probably tell us himself. Eventually, both of you will be called upon to testify. In the context of everything else that’s gone down, two witnesses should be enough. The Senator will go down, and the Alliance exposed.”<
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  Fisk nodded.

  “As for your future,” Reeder said, “I think your full cooperation will mean you’ll see no federal time. I’ll ask the President to instruct the Justice Department that you be granted immunity, or he’ll give you a pardon if necessary.”

  “He’d do that?”

  Reeder gave her half a smile. “He kind of owes me one.”

  Fisk shrugged, her expression stoic. “Of course, I’m onboard with this. If my husband is willing to leave his company in the hands of others, would relocation and new identities be a possibility?”

  He nodded, once. “I’d recommend it. Highly probable.”

  She turned to Rogers. “I know you’re disappointed in me.”

  Rogers said nothing, though her glare was eloquent.

  “But I do have a kind of peace offering,” Fisk said. “From the blood DNA at the scene of the Wooten slaying we identified the shooter—one Jadyn Sims. At first blush, Sims seems to be a mercenary but I believe what we have is a compromised CIA asset. He was brought in yesterday by my Domestic Terrorism unit, and a ballistics matchup links a weapon in his possession to both the Wooten and Ivanek shootings. And a handgun links him to the Bohannon killing.”

  Reeder said, “That makes him a potentially key witness.”

  The AD nodded. “I believe he can be turned, now that the conspiracy will inevitably be exposed. He’ll be facing treason charges, as well as murder, and we’ll give him a chance to bargain for his life by cooperating.”

  Rogers’ eyes flared. “Are you seriously suggesting that the murderer of Trevor Ivanek and Jerry Bohannon should receive immunity?”

  Fisk didn’t flinch from Rogers’ gaze. “Not immunity. Just the avoidance of the death penalty. But know this . . . I’ll have to live with the deaths of those two agents for the rest of my life.”

  “If I had my way,” Rogers said, “the rest of your life would be about thirty seconds.”

  Fisk swallowed. Nodded. “I know there’s no making it up to you.”

  Reeder smiled pleasantly. “Actually, Margery, you already have. And maybe Patti will come around, too, someday. After all, you’ve done us a big favor.”

  Fisk’s eyebrows went up. “What favor is that?”