Jake Teeny had an exciting job that took him to the most exotic and dangerous places in the world, but he lived in a boring ranch house in the Maryland suburbs, preferring-he’d told Dana-a mundane, risk-free existence when he wasn’t braving the dangers of a war zone or enduring the extreme heat of Africa or bitter Arctic nights. Weekends when he was home, Jake puttered in his garden, watched the NBA and NFL, and lived the life suburban.
Dana parked down the street from Jake’s place as a precaution in case there was an APB out for her car. She was exhausted but she had work to do so she went into the kitchen and made a cup of instant coffee. She was carrying her mug downstairs to Jake’s office when her cell phone rang. Dana placed the mug on a step and answered it.
“What’s going on, Dana?” Andy Zipay asked. He sounded nervous.
“What do you mean?”
“My guy ran those plates. One of them belongs to Charlotte Walsh and another is registered to Monarch Electronics, an outfit in Landover, Maryland, but the third car is registered to the Secret Service. And that electronics firm is the type of place the Service would use as a cover for the cars they don’t use on protection details.”
Dana felt a chill. “Which license is for the Secret Service car?”
Zipay read back the license number of the dark blue Lincoln sedan that had been parked at the farmhouse. Now Dana knew why the man Charlotte Walsh had harangued looked familiar.
“Thanks, Zip,” she said automatically as her brain raced along to the only conclusion logic was suggesting.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re interested in the Secret Service?”
“You don’t want to know, okay?”
“Whatever you say, but this better not come back on me.”
“It won’t.”
Dana ended the call and made her way down the rest of the stairs as quickly as possible. She flipped on the light in Jake’s office and booted up his computer. While she waited, she glanced at the walls of the cramped room. They were covered by photos that had won awards or were Jake’s favorites. The photos were so striking they drew her eye even though she’d seen them several times: a naked child drinking water from a puddle on a war-torn street in Somalia, a terrified bride and groom moments after a suicide bomber struck at their wedding in Fallujah, a blind climber on the summit of Everest.
The computer beeped, signaling that it was ready to go to work. Dana swiveled back to the keyboard and typed in some commands. After downloading the images from her camera she burned a DVD for Perry to give to his client then she went through the pictures. She took a sip from her mug as she reviewed the shots from the Thai restaurant. The close-ups were good, and she only had to zoom in on a few to get better details. The shots at the mall were also good even though it had been dark and she had a clear picture of the license plate of the car that had taken Walsh to the farmhouse.
Her first shots at the farmhouse were okay, but the pictures she’d taken through the second-floor window hadn’t come out as well. Dana moved through the pictures quickly until she came to the photos she’d taken when Walsh stormed out of the farmhouse. When she got to the shot she’d taken just before she ran she leaned forward and squinted at the monitor. The mystery man was looking at the departing Ford, and his face was framed in the shot, but he was too far away to see clearly without enhancement. Dana zoomed in. The man’s features sharpened. She enlarged the shot some more and sat back in her chair, her heart beating rapidly. Dana had no doubt about the identity of the man Walsh had met at the farmhouse. President Farrington’s face was in the newspaper every day and on television every night. What had Perry gotten her into?
Dana tried to take a sip of her coffee but her hand shook and a wave of hot liquid slopped over onto her wrist and scalded her.
“Shit!”
She wiped her hand on her shirt and shook it to cool it off. She’d have a lot more to worry about than a burn if the people watching Farrington had her license number.
Dana stood up and started to pace. Could she get Perry to intercede for her? He was connected. Hell, he was a personal friend of the Farringtons. Then it occurred to her that Perry couldn’t intercede on her behalf. If he did, he’d have to tell the president that he’d hired someone to spy on him. Perry would deny any connection to her and the surveillance and there was no way she could prove he was lying. Perry had met her where no one knew them. The waitress was the only witness, and she’d never be able to ID Dale. He’d been wearing shades and that baseball cap. And there was no paper trail. He’d paid her in cash. She was screwed.
Another idea occurred to her as soon as she calmed down enough to think. Maybe she could work this fiasco to her advantage. If Christopher Farrington was having an affair with Charlotte Walsh the photographs she’d taken were worth a lot of money. Farrington was always spouting off about family values. Proof he was having sex with a teenager would send the media into a feeding frenzy. A tabloid like Exposed would give her a fortune for the shots. And there were the right-wing television stations. She bet they’d come across.
Of course, the money wouldn’t do her any good if she was in prison for attacking the guard or dead. Maybe she could use the pictures as a bargaining chip to stay out of jail or to get Farrington to leave her alone. Maybe she could get some money for them from Farrington and use the pictures as an insurance policy. Dana decided that she should put a copy of the photos in a safe place, maybe give them to a lawyer or lock them up in a safety-deposit box. But did she need a bargaining chip? She would if the Secret Service knew who she was, but she still wasn’t certain that they had her license number. There was only one way to find out. She’d have to go to her apartment and see if it was under surveillance. She couldn’t drive her car because it would be recognized. Jake’s Harley was available, but she didn’t want to get him in trouble. In the end, Dana decided to take the motorcycle.
Dana put a DVD with the photos and a cover letter in an envelope with Jake’s name on it and left it on his desk. Jake would know how to exploit the pictures if something happened to her. She addressed another envelope with a second copy of the DVD to a lawyer who’d given her legal advice when she was deciding whether to quit the force. She dropped the envelope for the lawyer in a mailbox on her way to her apartment, which was on the third floor of a three-story brick apartment house on Wisconsin Avenue, a short haul from the National Cathedral. The bottom floor was occupied by a Greek restaurant and the entrance was between the restaurant and a dry cleaner. Dana cruised by her building slowly, taking in both sides of the street. At this hour, there wasn’t much traffic and it should have been easy to spot a stakeout. As far as Dana could tell, the cars on both sides of her block were unoccupied and she didn’t see any suspicious-looking vans.
Dana waited on a side street for fifteen minutes before circling the block and cruising back on the opposite side of the street. Nothing she saw raised her antennae. If someone was watching her apartment they weren’t doing it from the street, but the surveillance could be from any of the apartments across the street. She tried to spot some suspicious activity in one of them but she couldn’t see into the darkened interiors.
After making sure that the back wasn’t being watched, Dana parked the Harley in the rear of her building and entered it through a metal door that opened into the basement. Maybe she was going to be okay. Maybe she’d been lucky and it had been too dark to make out her license plate.
Dana took the stairs and paused on the landing that ran in front of her door. The cheap linoleum floor was dimly lit by a few low-watt bulbs spaced along the water-stained ceiling. The linoleum would squeak when she walked along it, so she moved as quietly as she could. The hall doors were made of thin wood and provided little privacy. If she was in the hall, Dana could hear televisions playing and domestic quarrels. She pressed her ear to the door to her apartment for a minute and used her key when she didn’t hear any sounds coming from inside.
Dana flipped on the light and stared down the narrow ha
llway that led from the front door to the bedroom at the back of the apartment. The kitchen was through the first doorway on the left and the entrance to a small living room was next to the kitchen door. Dana closed and locked the front door and listened for sounds in the apartment. When she heard nothing she breathed a sigh of relief and stepped into the kitchen.
The blow to her solar plexus took her breath away, and Dana sat down hard. A large hand grabbed her by the throat and hoisted her to her feet while she tried to suck in air.
“Where are the camera and the pictures, bitch?” asked a large man in a black T-shirt. He pushed his face into hers. He had a broken nose and dull, blue eyes. His breath was stale, and she could see the dark bristles on his cheeks.
Dana wanted to answer but she couldn’t catch her breath. The man threw her to the floor and kicked her in the side. Her motorcycle jacket absorbed some of the blow but not enough to prevent pain from shooting through her ribs.
“We’re not fucking around. Give us the camera and all of the pictures, now, or I’ll rape you before I kick you to death.”
Dana’s mind played tricks on her and she thought her attacker sounded like one of the men who had chained her to the wall in the basement. She scuttled backward down the hall like a crab until she was pressed against the front door. Then she curled into a fetal ball. Her attacker looked over his shoulder at a second man, who was dressed in a light gray jacket, jeans, and running shoes. His blond hair almost touched his shoulders and his beard was neatly trimmed.
“I think she’s holding out because she wants us to fuck her,” said the man who’d hit her. “What do you think?”
“I didn’t hear the young lady tell us where the pictures are, did you?”
“No, siree. I do believe she wants it.” Her attacker grabbed his crotch and pulled up. “Mmm, mmm, she’s gonna taste sweet.”
Dana was terrified but she was also armed. Ever since her ordeal she had carried an assortment of weapons, and the one that was easiest to reach in a fetal position was the gun that was secured to her ankle.
Her attacker watched wide-eyed as Dana fired. The bullet bored through his thigh, and he screamed and crumpled to the floor. The explosion and scream in the confined space paralyzed the second man. By the time he was able to move, Dana was on her feet, her gun pointed at his heart. She looked homicidal.
“Take it easy,” the second man begged, his voice unsteady and his hands, which he’d raised in supplication, shaking badly.
A red tide washed through Dana’s brain and insane voices urged her to kill. Only the lessons learned in months of therapy stopped her from shooting the man, or doing something much worse.
“Easy?” she screamed. “It didn’t sound like you were going to take it easy.”
Dana’s hand was trembling and the intruder’s eyes were glued on her twitching trigger finger. He held his hands out toward her.
“You don’t want to shoot me by mistake. Calm down.”
“Tell me to calm down one more time and I’ll gut shoot you.”
The man turned pale. “Look, we weren’t really going to rape you,” he said, his voice shaking as badly as Dana’s. “We’re federal agents. We were trying to frighten you.”
The man who’d hit her had grabbed his thigh with both hands and was rolling back and forth on the floor, moaning in pain. Dana kicked him in the face.
“Shut the fuck up,” she yelled so she could be heard above his cries of pain. Blood spurted from his nose and he collapsed on his back.
The second man used Dana’s momentary inattention to go for a weapon, but her gun was back on target before he was halfway. He hesitated before raising his hands again.
“Don’t shoot. We’re really Feds. Let me get my ID from my pocket.”
“I don’t give a fuck who you are. But you’re sure not dressed like J. Edgar Hoover. You’re dressed like a burglar-rapist and I’d be acting in self-defense if I shot your balls off.”
“Be smart. Kill us and you’ll have every law enforcement agency in the country hunting you down.”
“They’re doing that already.”
Dana cocked the gun.
“Please, don’t. I’m married. I have kids.”
“You think I care?”
Dana heard sirens. Someone had heard the gunshots and the screams and called the cops. She made a decision.
“Do you have handcuffs?”
“Yeah.”
“Take them out slowly then get down on the floor and cuff yourself to this asshole.”
The second man was only too happy to comply. As soon as the two agents were hooked up Dana backed out of the apartment and sprinted down the stairs. She’d been tempted to kill her attackers but she didn’t need any more ghosts in her nightmares.
As soon as she straddled the Harley Dana sped off, making random left and right turns until she was miles away from her place. She tried to remember how much money she had in her wallet. She’d used an ATM recently and she thought she had $150. If she used an ATM again the cops would know it but she had no choice. She needed as much cash as she could get her hands on. She would not be able to use her credit cards from now on.
Dana found a bank on the outskirts of Chevy Chase and got the maximum amount of cash from the ATM. Then she sped off with no plan. She was living the ultimate nightmare. The president of the United States was out to get her and he had the resources of the FBI, CIA, NSA, and every other letter in the alphabet at his disposal. Dana had $372.40, a.38 Special with four bullets, and a borrowed Harley with three-quarters of a tank of gas.
Part Two.A Hopeless Appeal
Oregon
Chapter Nine
Shortly after moving to Portland to take a job with Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton- Oregon ’s largest law firm-Brad Miller rented a riverside apartment with a view of Mount Hood. When he opened his bedroom shades on this balmy morning in late June he beheld the sun rising behind the majestic, snowcapped mountain and a crew of eight women stroking with vigor along the far shore of the Willamette River. It was a scene that should have brought a smile to Brad’s face but this morning he had a good reason for feeling sad and empty.
Brad had experienced good days and bad days since moving across the country for his job. The longer he was away from New York and the everyday sights that reminded him of Bridget Malloy, the more frequent were his good days, but today was the seven-month anniversary of the day Bridget had broken off their engagement, and there was no view, no matter how magnificent, that could prevent him from being depressed.
Brad showered away some of his gloom, dressed for work, and walked to his office, stopping on the way for breakfast at a favorite spot on Third Avenue. He usually grabbed a quick bite at home, but there was a lull in work at the office and he was in no rush this morning. He read the newspaper while he finished his eggs. The Yankees’ extra-innings victory over Boston helped take his mind off Bridget. Brad may have left the East behind, but he was a Yankee fan for life.
When he’d finished his breakfast, Brad walked several blocks to a thirty-story, glass-and-steel office building in the heart of downtown Portland. Reed, Briggs’s main entrance was on the thirtieth floor. The first person clients saw when they entered the spacious waiting area was a gorgeous receptionist who sat behind a magnificent polished wood dais that displayed the firm name in shiny metal letters. Behind the receptionist were several glass-walled conference rooms with magnificent views of three snowcapped mountains and the river. While they waited, the clients sat on soft leather sofas and thumbed through copies of U.S. News & World Report or The Wall Street Journal. It was on this floor that the partners made big deals for important people in huge offices furnished by interior decorators.
Brad did not take the elevator to the thirtieth floor. Junior associates entered Reed, Briggs’s hallowed halls on twenty-seven and walked down a dull, windowless corridor to a plain door, where they tapped in an entry code on a keypad affixed to the wall. Inside, the support st
aff sat in cubicles that filled the center of the floor, surrounded by the unimpressive offices occupied by the firm’s newest members.
Brad filled a mug with coffee in the lunchroom and carried it to his tiny office. A narrow window above his credenza looked down on the roof of a hotel parking lot. The rest of the office was filled to capacity by a desk, two client chairs, a gunmetal gray filing cabinet, and a bookcase stuffed with a set of the Oregon Revised Statutes and the tax code. Brad’s only decorations were framed copies of his college and law school diplomas.
Brad’s desk was usually stacked high with assignments from the partners, but when he’d left his office the night before he’d had fewer files than usual to work on. This was because the partner he’d been assisting had just settled the lawsuit that had taken up a good part of Brad’s time since he’d joined the firm. When Brad walked into the office he stopped short and groaned. Three new files covered his blotter. A quick look at the memo on top of the center file let him know that he was in for a late night.
Brad took a sip of coffee while his computer booted up. After checking his e-mail, he started going through a forty-page contract between a subcontractor and a construction company that was building condominiums on the coast near Lincoln City. He was on page seven when his intercom buzzed and the receptionist told him that Susan Tuchman wanted to see him. Brad sighed, placed a yellow Post-it on the paragraph he was reading, and headed for the stairs that would take him up to the thirtieth floor.
The associates had nicknamed Tuchman the “Dragon Lady” and the aerie where the Gods of Reed, Briggs ruled, “Heaven.” Brad could have ascended there on the elevator but walking up stairs was one of the few types of exercise he was getting since he started working fourteen-hour days. Some of the other associates jogged or exercised in a gym before work, but Brad was not a morning person. He did play an occasional game of tennis at the Pettygrove Athletic Club, where all the partners and associates had memberships, and he did get in a run or two on the weekend, but he’d noticed that the numbers on his bathroom scale had been inching up and he was finding it harder and harder to run down cross-court forehands. By the time he opened the door to the thirtieth floor he had made a vow to watch his diet and get in at least four hours of exercise each week.
Executive Privilege Page 5