Aaron entered the shop and was greeted by a man with long white hair in a braid down to the small of his back, a white beard, and a red bandana. Did I just step into Willie Nelson’s gun shop?
“What can I do for ya, brother?” asked the Willie Nelson look-alike.
“I need a nine-millimeter hand gun and some ammo.”
“Let me show you what I got.”
Aaron saw a Sig Sauer M11 under the glass counter. “No need. I’ll take the M11.”
“You know your guns. That’s nine eighty plus tax.”
“I’ll also need a suppressor and five clips.”
“You ain’t planning to rob no banks are ya?”
“No, bro. Nothin like that. It’s my ex. She took a few shooting lessons and now she’s gone Rambo. She and her boy toy have made some pretty serious threats against me. That’s why I left Pittsburg and am heading to who-knows-where. I just wanna be prepared. In case whatever happens.”
“Can’t blame you, dude. That’s nine eighty for the gun and fifty more for the ammo. And there’s a two-day waiting period for the handgun.”
“So that’s a thousand and thirty plus tax,” Aaron began. “How about I give you two thousand cash right now and we forget about the paperwork and the waiting period?”
Willie Nelson’s look-alike stepped back and put his hands behind his head and said, “D-u-u-u-de.”
“Twenty-five hundred.” Aaron pulled the stack of bills out of his backpack and set the money on the glass counter.
The salesman looked through the open door at the parking lot outside. He turned his gaze back to Aaron as he reached under the counter and pulled the Sig Sauer out of the case and set it on the counter. “Take it bro, but don’t ever come back here.”
Aaron picked up the handgun and the two boxes of ammunition and hurriedly walked out the door and got in the van. After he stopped at a Wal-Mart and picked up a new prepaid smart phone and a medium-size Swiss army knife with nineteen separate tools, he re-entered I-70 East.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
WASHINGTON, DC
MONDAY, JULY 25TH
4:30 P.M.
Nigel Stafford walked out of the Executive Building and took a deep breath of fresh air as he looked up and away from the still-bright afternoon sun. He walked past the Secret Service agent in the guard shack at the gate.
“Have a nice evening, Mr. Stafford,” said the guard. Stafford did not know the name of the guard so he simply replied, “You have a nice evening, too.”
It was a warm and humid three-block walk from the Executive Building to the McPherson Square Metro station. Stafford entered at ground level. He walked past a homeless man lying on the floor beneath the sign pointing to the White House, and after he passed his prepaid card through the turnstile, he and several hundred other Washingtonians took the escalator to descend to the Metro level. He sat on one of the few benches under the arched, honeycombed ceiling of the station and let two trains pass before the orange line destined for Vienna arrived.
Stafford entered the car jammed with the usual rush hour crowd so he stood in the aisle and held onto the overhead stability bar. Crowds of people waiting for their line flashed past the windows as the train accelerated away from the stop.
At the Ballston stop, he noticed a man with a familiar build and posture that stood in the car behind his. He exhaled hard and rubbed his forehead. That’s Aaron in the car behind me. What the hell is he doing?
Stafford had a panic button on his cell phone. He knew if he activated the button, a watch officer at the White House would receive the signal and use the GPS tracking on the phone to locate him. Within minutes, Secret Service agents would descend on his position and secure the area.
He’s been off the grid for almost a month. But he hasn’t approached me. In fact, he’s stalking me. Stafford reached into the pocket on his slacks and placed his finger on the panic button. No. Goddamn it! If he wanted to do me any harm he would already have done it. More than once Aaron has saved my ass. I owe him this much. I’ll let him make his move.
Thirty minutes later, Stafford exited the Metro at the last stop, the Vienna/Fairfax station. He ambled through the hurrying crowd toward the bike rack where he had locked his Roadmaster commuter bike. He looked over his shoulder and confirmed Aaron was still following, then unlocked his bike and rode south, down hilly, infrequently traveled two lane roads until he intersected with Lee Highway, one of Fairfax’s busiest thoroughfares.
Off of Lee Highway, Stafford stopped at a delicatessen and market and bought a club sandwich and chips to take home for dinner. When he came out Stafford looked around and saw Aaron straddling a bike, waiting at a gas station across the street, and he looked directly at him. That’s definitely Monroe. He shook his head. The son of a bitch stole someone’s bike to follow me. He put his finger on the panic button again but didn’t call for help.
Stafford placed his dinner in a saddlebag on the back of the bike and continued his journey home to his condominium overlooking the Army-Navy Golf Course. He pulled his bike into the elevator and got off on the third floor of the condominium where his apartment was located.
He entered his apartment and locked the door behind him, then sat on a red leather high-back chair next to the fireplace and reached into the drawer on the cocktail table next to him and withdrew a standard, government-issue Colt .9 millimeter pistol. He checked to ensure it had a clip loaded and then chambered a round. He crossed one leg over the other, turned out the lights, and waited.
Stafford focused on the door like a laser beam. Silently, the latch on the door lock turned. Then the doorknob turned and the door slowly opened. Aaron walked in with his weapon drawn in both hands and in a shooting position and closed the door behind him.
Stafford’s mouth was dry and he felt his heart race and his forehead perspire. He aimed his pistol at Monroe and spoke, “Aaron. I’m over here.”
“Of course you are.” Aaron walked into the apartment with his weapon aimed at Stafford. The apartment was dim. The dusk light outside provided the only radiance through a glass patio door. He continued to walk into the living area where Stafford was seated near the fireplace. “Funny, I’ve known you for almost ten years and this is the first time I’ve been in your apartment.”
“An oversight on my part for which I apologize,” replied Stafford.
Aaron sat on a barstool-like chair next to a high top table by the French door, which led to the balcony that overlooked the Army-Navy Country Club golf course. He kept his pistol trained on Stafford. “Did you call it in? The panic button?”
“Not yet. But I have my finger on the button if I need to.”
“You know why I’m here?” Aaron asked.
“Not exactly,” replied Stafford, “but I’m hoping it has something to do with an explanation for why you’ve dropped off the grid for the last four weeks.”
They each sat with their weapon in their respective laps, aimed at each other with their fingers on the triggers.
“Why did you drop out and break contact with me? You know that was a serious breach of protocol. The president and VP are both more than a bit perturbed.”
“Really!” Aaron raised his voice. “Cause you know what I’m perturbed about? I’m perturbed that you sent a team into London to take me down. I’m perturbed that my godparents were executed and I’m perturbed that Sarah has disappeared.” Aaron leaned forward. His trigger finger twitched. “In fact, Nigel, you know what? I’m not perturbed. I’m fucking junkyard dog angry!”
“Aaron. What are you talking about? What happened?”
“Quit the bullshit, Nigel. I saw Senator Walsh on a BBC broadcast. He all but called me a criminal and declared I need to be dealt with.”
Stafford stood. “Aaron, I’m leveling with you. I saw Walsh’s grandstand on the Capitol steps and so did the president and vice president. They both interpreted that as the unofficial kick-off to Walsh’s presidential campaign to make it look like this administration has a l
eague of rogue agents running around we can’t control. He’s trying to discredit the VP.”
Aaron stood and took a few steps to his right, his weapon still aimed at heart of his one-time friend and comrade-in-arms.
Stafford took a few steps as well, his weapon still aimed at Aaron.
“Aaron, I seriously don’t know what you are talking about. We never sent a team after you. You have to believe me.”
“No. I don’t,” Aaron replied. “After what’s happened, I don’t have to believe anyone.”
Stafford shook his head. He sat in the chair by the fireplace again. “What are you accusing us of?”
“Are you saying you did not send a hit squad to Sarah’s flat in London?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. We did not do that!”
Aaron studied Stafford for any attempt to detect the slight tingling feeling in the face and neck that a person gets when lying. He didn’t rub his eyes, or scratch his nose. In fact, he sat with his legs unfolded, a subtle sign he was being honest.
“Aaron. I don’t know anything about Sarah’s flat in London. What happened?” Stafford asked.
Aaron squeezed his eyes closed for a brief moment. He visualized the firefight at Sarah’s flat. And he visualized his godparents executed in their home. Finally, he saw Sarah as she sat by the pool and told him she would be happy if they just stayed at the vineyard and forgot about the rest of the world.
“What the hell happened?” Stafford asked again. “Aaron. I’m going to move very slowly and place my gun and phone on the table next to me. Alright?” As he turned slowly Stafford continued. “Look. Everything you have told me so far about the ISIS cells you identified has been accurate. The Council is looking into all of the allegations . . . I’m not your enemy, man. The Council did not send anyone after you or Sarah. But after Walsh’s grandstand and your disappearance, the Council has some concerns. Aaron, you’re going to have to trust someone. Let me help.”
Aaron’s throat was dry and he felt his hand tremble a bit and his pulse pound in his neck. He stood, and with his weapon still aimed at Stafford, he walked backward to the door.
Stafford stood and said, “Aaron. I’m serious. You need our help.”
Aaron left the apartment and ran out of the building.
* * *
Stafford picked up his phone and pressed the Secret Service panic button. He also placed a call to the vice president.
Warren Patterson answered on the second ring. “Mr. Vice President,” Stafford began, “Monroe was just at my apartment. I think something very bad has happened. Sir, he thinks the Council sent a hit squad after him and said something about Sarah Nejem being kidnapped.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sir, I don’t know. He left in a hurry. I alerted the Secret Service and they should be here very soon but Monroe is probably going to be hard to find. He’s angry and I think very dangerous.”
* * *
Aaron heard the rotary whop-whop of the Secret Service helicopter as it approached and he saw the red and green lights blinking as it flew over on the way to Stafford’s condominium complex. He hailed a taxi on Lee Highway and told the driver to take him to the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Tysons Corner.
The nine-and-a-half-mile trip along Arlington Boulevard and I-495 took sixteen minutes. Aaron entered the hotel lobby and waited for the taxi to leave, then he walked through the hotel into Tysons Corner mall and out into the parking lot on the south end of the mall.
As he expected, four black Secret Service SUVs screeched to a stop in front of the hotel. Aaron hurriedly walked through the Tysons II parking lot and entered the Tysons Corner Metro station. Within a few minutes the first silver line train stopped and he boarded that and rode it to the Rosslyn station. After he rode one of the longest continuous escalators in the world, Aaron walked out of the station onto Fort Meyer Drive and walked around the business area that was near vacant at that time of day for a half hour to ensure he had not been followed.
Stafford was right about one thing. I need to trust someone and I’ve always been able to trust Ellsberg. My mentor. My friend.
Aaron returned to the Residence Inn hotel that he rented for a week, and after checking all the exits and determining potential escape routes, he fell asleep on the couch.
* * *
The bright sun poked through the cracks between the heavy hotel shades and reflected off the highly-polished linoleum floor of the kitchen area in his room. Aaron woke and looked at the face on his prepaid phone.
Seven-thirty. He sat up and noticed he was still on the couch in his street clothes. Damn. I guess I was tired.
Aaron took a shower and put on a clean pair of jeans and a red T-shirt he pulled from a carry-on bag. He picked up his prepaid phone and dialed the number of his mentor’s cell phone from memory.
He picked up immediately. “This is Ellsberg.”
“Lee. This is Aaron.”
“Aaron. Good to hear from you, man. I’ve been worried.”
“About what?”
“Well, Jesus, Aaron. The last time we talked you told me you were chasing some worldwide terror network and you may or may not have the Council’s blessing. Then you dropped off the face of the Earth. Dude, I seem to remember the last words I said to you was to be careful. I was afraid you might not have taken my advice.”
“Yeah, well you were probably right. A lot a shit has gone down. I need to talk to you, buddy. I need you to tell me if I’ve lost my friggin’ mind.”
“Sure thing, buddy,” replied Ellsberg. “When do you want to meet?”
“As soon as we can,” Aaron replied.
“Okay. I’ll tell you what. I know an out-of-the-way barbecue joint out in Upper Marlboro. I don’t have your e-mail address with me. Remind me what that is and I’ll send you directions to the place. We can meet there this afternoon.”
“Well, I haven’t been using any of my usual electronic devices. I’m calling you from a prepaid phone. But, you know. That’s not a big deal. I’ll just set up a new Gmail account and you can send the directions to me at that address.”
“That’ll work,” replied Ellsberg. “Why don’t you do that, and once you have a new address, send me an e-mail and I’ll respond with the directions.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t remember your e-mail either. Once I punch it into my contact list I tend to forget it.”
“That’s okay. I have a different e-mail address now, anyway. I set up a new address and now all of my e-mail — all four separate accounts — are merged into one and it’s easy to remember. I used the first three letter of my employer’s hyphenated title, Coleman-Brown, and added the year I was born, 1969.”
“I have a pen in hand. Shoot,” replied Aaron.
“So the address is [email protected]”
Aaron flashed back to the forger. He pistol whipped him across the face. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know. I swear by my mother’s grave.”
“Are you sure he was an American?”
“Yes. His e-mail was something like, [email protected].”
Aaron experienced a vertigo-like reaction and he felt like he was going to vomit. He placed his hand over his mouth and murmured, “Son of a bitch.”
“You alright, buddy?” asked Ellsberg. “You got real quiet all of a sudden.”
“I’m fine,” Aaron replied. “I’ll send you that address shortly.”
PART 4
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
WASHINGTON, DC
TUESDAY, JULY 26TH
8:45 A.M.
Senator Walsh occupied an office on the second floor of the Russell Senate building. Stafford entered the century-old, white brick Beaux-Arts-styled building from the main entrance on Constitution Avenue and walked through the polished marble rotunda to the narrow, brass-railed staircase. He entered the senator’s outer office and was greeted by a young staffer. After a few moments, the senator emerged.
“This is a pleasan
t surprise. Come in.” The senator escorted Stafford into his large office. The maroon-colored walls were almost completely covered in mementos, photographs, and magazine covers of the senator’s long career.
Walsh pulled a chair out from behind his desk, and as he sat, he motioned for Stafford to be seated on a large, brown leather sofa. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“Senator, I’ll get right to the point. The vice president sent me over here to tell you this personally. Our Orthrus Hawk operative is back in DC. He paid me a visit at my home last night.”
“Was he apprehended after this visit?”
“I’m afraid not, senator. And with what he told me last night, I’m very concerned.”
Senator Walsh rubbed the area under his nose.
“Senator, this man believes we sent a hit squad after him. He claimed the attempted hit went down in London at his girlfriend’s apartment and stated he took down whoever it was that went after him. Now I know that would imply there is an unsolved multiple homicide that took place in London within the past few weeks, and to confirm that, I’ve already placed a call to the night desk at the London Embassy, so if there’s any truth to what Monroe said we should have verification of that soon.”
Walsh cleared his throat.
“He also implied his girlfriend has been kidnapped and he believes she is in great danger. Sir, I can assure you the Council had nothing to do with any of the things he accused us of doing.”
“Well, sir,” Walsh drawled, “I must confess that I think your Council has done a piss-poor job of controlling this loose cannon and I would hope that you have all hands on deck right now to rectify this.”
“Senator, we’re doing everything that we can to locate him and bring him in but the vice president thought it was important you hear this personally. The operative specifically mentioned he saw you on BBC a few weeks ago when you labeled him a rogue agent and implied we should use whatever force is needed to bring him in, including lethal force.”
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