Trust But Verify

by Karna Small Bodman

“Yeah,” Brett said, taking a drink. “I saw one where a group of college kids were asked about who should be on the Supreme Court. One girl mentioned the Kardashians.”

  Samantha burst out laughing. “We should get some sort of initiative going at the state level. Not a federal edict, but something local school boards could do. They could require high school students to pass the same naturalization test immigrants have to pass in order to become American citizens. The questions are all online.”

  “I think that’s a great idea,” Brett said. “Everyone who wants a driver’s license has to study to pass a driver’s test. Why shouldn’t everyone who wants an American high school diploma have to study to pass a civics test? I think I’ll pitch your idea to my mom. Maybe she can get the ball rolling on it back home.”

  “You have to start somewhere. Was your mom the one who made you want to work for the government and join the FBI?”

  “In a way. But to be honest, I used to read a lot of mysteries and crime novels when I was a kid. Guess I sort of inhaled the idea of becoming an agent who would bring down bad guys,” he gave her a slight grin. “Kids get notions in all sorts of strange ways.”

  “Do you have any?” she asked cautiously.

  “Nope. Might be nice someday. I was married for a while, but she never got used to my hours or what I was doing. Ran off with a bond dealer. Haven’t bought a bond since. Just a few stocks,” Brett said with a shrug.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Is your dad still alive?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “He died three years ago. He’s buried at Arlington. It’s an honor to be there. Before I moved, I hadn’t visited D.C. since his ceremony. I visited the site as soon as I got here. What about your family?”

  “My parents are gone. Mom had cancer when I was in college. My dad had a heart attack when he was overseas. He was in the oil and gas business. He taught me a lot. I have a photo of them on my coffee table I can show you.” She walked out of the kitchen and headed toward the couch in front of the picture window.

  Brett followed her and noticed that the window’s curtains were open. “Better let me close those curtains. Sorry, I should have done that earlier.”

  “No problem. I’ll take care of it.”

  As she pulled the cord, a bullet tore through the window. Shards of glass shot into the back of the couch, and Brett cried out, “God, no!” He leaped, threw Samantha to the floor, and covered her body with his.

  THIRTY-THREE

  MONDAY NIGHT;

  GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  BRETT ROLLED TO THE SIDE and stared at Samantha. “Were you hit? Open your eyes. Tell me,” he demanded.

  Samantha blinked, looked at him, reached up, and rubbed her forehead. “A shot. There was a shot. Next thing I’m on the floor.”

  He heaved a sigh of relief. She was alive, but had she been wounded? “I tackled you,” he said, reaching over to touch her face. “Are you okay?” he asked anxiously.

  She moved her shoulders from side to side and said, “I think so. Nothing hurts. Well, except my head a little bit. Maybe when I hit the floor.”

  “Sorry. Had to get you away from that window.” He glanced up and saw where the bullet had smashed through the glass. “I can’t believe someone was able to take a shot at you in that one minute you were exposed. My god, Samantha! He could have killed you.” He kneeled beneath the window, scanned the street below, and shook his head. “I’ve got to get out there. The shooter must be gone by now, but someone may have seen something or got a license.” He reached for her hand. “Here, let me help you.” He stood up with her and then closed the drapes. “Stay away from the window. Lock the door after me, use the bolt. Got that?”

  She nodded as Brett grabbed his jacket and gun. He raced out the door and tore down the stairs. On the street, he didn’t see any cars racing away or people walking in front of the building. He ran past Chadwick’s and headed toward Wisconsin Avenue. When he got to the corner, he saw several cars driving slowly by the entrance to the Georgetown Park garage. Others were stopped at the light on M street. As he ran, he pulled out his cell and called for backup.

  Holding his phone to his ear, he hurried up the street, peering into every car on his way. He saw two couples in a Buick, then an Explorer with a family inside. No lone driver. No black Acura.

  Damn. How could I let someone get a clear shot at Samantha? How could I be so stupid? How in god’s name could I—

  He continued to mentally tear himself apart. She hadn’t been hit, but what would the incident do to her mental state? She was usually cool and calm. But after this? Who the hell knew? He just knew he and the other agents had to step up their game and put an end to this nightmare.

  When he finally got through to headquarters, he reported the attack. There was no evidence that proved Samantha’s stalker and the shooter were the same person, but he knew in his gut they were. He explained his suspicions in his report, listed the address of the attack, and said he was heading back to the apartment but needed help ASAP.

  Samantha buzzed him in when he returned to the apartment building. He hit the stairs and saw a teenage girl looking down the hall from behind her door. She called to him. “What’s happening? I thought I heard a gunshot or something.”

  “Someone shot a window from the street. Did you see anything?”

  “Uh, no. I wasn’t looking outside. I just thought I heard something. Is everyone okay?” she asked.

  “Yes. Everyone’s fine,” Brett said. He flashed his badge and took out a card. “I’m Brett Keating. FBI. If you think of anything or talk to anyone who may have seen something—a person, a car, anything at all—please contact me right away, okay?”

  She stared at the card, nodded, and said nervously, “Uh, sure. What were they shooting at anyway?”

  “That’s not important,” Brett said. “We just want to find whoever went out for target practice tonight.” He turned, walked over to Samantha’s door, knocked, and hurried inside.

  “Find out anything?” she asked expectantly.

  “Afraid not,” Brett said, sloughing off his jacket. “I can’t believe I left those curtains open. Where the hell was my head?” He stared at her, raked his fingers through his hair, and muttered, “You could have been hit.”

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t blame yourself. I should have thought of it myself. I only leave the drapes open during the day so the plants get some sunlight, and I usually close them right away when I get home. I just forgot about it today. Besides, it was so late, we went straight into the kitchen.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Brett said, looking her over.

  “No worse for wear. Pretty scary stuff though,” she said, a flicker of fear in her eyes.

  “Damn right it is. I called it in. Agents will be here in a few minutes. Why don’t you have some wine or something to eat? Might help you to relax. I want to see if I can find the damn bullet.”

  He walked over to the wall across from the window and looked up. “The guy was obviously firing from the sidewalk or from inside a car. If he was in a car, he would have parked in front with the driver side window open and headed toward Wisconsin or straight ahead toward the parkway. I checked Wisconsin, but now that I think about it, the fastest way out of here would have been straight down K Street.”

  “You’re right about that,” she said. “I just may have that drink.” She went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of wine, but when she tried to open it, her hands were shaking. She went back to the living room, bottle in hand.

  “Here, let me help you with that,” Brett said, pulling out the cork and handing it back. He turned to the wall again. “So, if he was firing from his car, which makes the most sense, the trajectory to the second floor was at a pretty steep angle. That means the bullet could be . . . ” He scanned the area above a painting of what looked like a field of daisies. The painting was fine. No damage there. He looked higher.

  “Can I grab one of those?” he said, co
ming over to the dining table. She nodded as he took one of her wooden dining chairs, carried it to the painting, stepped up, and said, “Here it is.” He reached into the pocket of his pants for the small folding knife he always carried. He opened it and carefully started to dig the bullet out of the wall, just below the crown molding.

  He got down from the chair and examined the bullet. “Nine millimeter. Could be from a Glock. Just a guess, though.” He didn’t want to tell her what a bullet like that could have done if the shooter’s aim had been better.

  In a matter of minutes, three agents were examining the apartment. Dom was one of them. “Don’t imagine you saw anything? Anyone?” he said.

  “No. When I ran out and checked the street, there wasn’t anybody on the sidewalk,” Brett said. “Get everyone to fan out through the building and the other apartments facing the street. I already talked to a neighbor next door. She didn’t see anything, but she did hear the shot. Maybe somebody else saw something. And check down the street at Chadwick’s. See if someone there heard the shot or saw a black Acura.” Brett opened his hand. “Here’s the bullet.” He pointed to the wall. “From up there. Need to bag it and have it analyzed. Might be a Glock.”

  “Will do,” Dom said, turning to give instructions to two other agents.

  Brett joined Samantha at the table. He looked into her troubled eyes, took in her nervous demeanor, and tried to concentrate. “Tell me again how you feel. How’s your head?”

  Samantha touched her forehead. “I’m sure I’m okay. I know your people are here, but I have to call this into the White House too,” she said. “They’ll be glad to know you’re on it. I’m not sure what we should do next, though.”

  “I do,” Brett said. “We’re going to increase your protection so there’ll be one agent outside and one inside at all times. We’re also going to recirculate that drawing we have of the Naples waiter. Along with the hotels, we’ll get it into the airports and train stations. We’ll double-check all the rental car places for anyone who’s got a black Acura. Actually, we’ve already been working on that, but there were so many of them. We’re still trying to find some of the renters, but we’ll double our efforts. There’s a lot of work to do. But we will find the guy.”

  Will we? And how the hell can we keep this woman safe? Can’t keep her locked up here or inside the White House every second.

  The more he thought about it, the more he cared about protecting her. He cared more about her safety than the safety of any others he’d had to protect in Chicago. Other informants, other potential witnesses. No, this time it was different. He realized that when it came to taking care of Samantha Reid, it wasn’t just professional. It was getting personal.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  LATE MONDAY EVENING;

  GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  DID I HIT HER? I tried to aim high. Just to scare the shit out of her. But she went down.

  Otto tried to gulp fresh air from the open window, but the smell of gun powder still hung in the air. He coughed and roughly massaged his ears.

  Shaking off the shock of the blast, he shoved the gun into the glove box and slammed the Acura into gear. Otto drove at a moderate speed down K Street, picked up Route 66 near the Kennedy Center, and headed out to Dulles Airport. It was time to switch gears. Immediately.

  When his target was inside the White House for work, he toured Washington, learning the complicated parkways, the quickest routes to the airports, and the places he’d hole up in if he had to. He also made lists of hotels and car rental companies.

  Vadim had given him three sets of passports and credit cards for his trip. He had used the first set for his airline ticket from San Francisco to Washington and the Acura rental from Hertz. He used the second set with the name Oleg Alimov when he checked into the Holiday Inn. He was saving the third set for his next car and escape out of town. If it came to that. Right now, he had to ditch the Acura.

  As he drove, he tuned the radio to WTOP, which he knew broadcasted news all day long. He wanted to check for reports about a shooting in Georgetown. Nothing yet. It was early. He’d keep checking. He drove just under the speed limit as he navigated the Dulles Access Road and finally took a turn-off to the right at a sign for Rental Car Return.

  He swerved into the Hertz lot and parked the car. He reached over and grabbed a baseball cap and a T-shirt. Otto put the cap on, wrapped the shirt around the gun, and tucked the bundle under his arm. Next he removed the reservation form from the glove box, noted the date and mileage, snatched the keys, and popped the trunk. He took out his roller bag filled with a change of clothes, put the gun and shirt in it, and walked into the rental office. He was glad to see several people standing in line. At this time of night, the lone clerk looked harried as she tried to process the travelers as fast as she could.

  When he reached the counter, he laid the form and keys on the desk and said, “You need anything else?”

  The clerk quickly glanced at the form, took the keys, and shook her head. “Charges will be on your credit card. Hope you enjoyed your stay.”

  “Yeah. Heading up to New York now. Got a lot to see.”

  “Have a good trip,” she said, turning to the next customer.

  He reached for his suitcase, paused by the door, and when the Hertz van drove up, he dashed out and hopped on board. The van wound around the terminal and finally stopped at the entrance to the United Airlines ticketing area. He gave the driver a small tip, heard him mumble, “Thanks,” got out, and headed inside.

  Making his way down the escalator to the baggage area, he turned and walked out the door again to join the taxi line. He finally got in one marked Washington Flyer, put his bag on the seat next to him, and said, “Reagan National Airport please.”

  During the taxi ride, he replayed the rental car return in his mind to make sure he hadn’t made any mistakes. If the FBI tried to track him down at the airport, he doubted that the Hertz woman would remember him. Even if she did, he had told her he was going to the biggest city he could think of. That should keep them busy for a while. He figured those agents were also checking hotels and knew he would have to check out of the Holiday Inn soon. But he hadn’t figured out how to explain the move to Jolene yet.

  He sat back in the seat as the taxi driver navigated the parkway going south and finally took the airport turnoff. “Which airline?”

  “Drop me off at Delta. Thanks.” Otto paid the fare, took the suitcase, and calmly walked inside. This time he went into the men’s room, changed into dark jeans and a hoodie, packed his polo shirt and ball cap, shifted the wrapped-up Glock to the bottom of his bag, and then once again walked down to the baggage area.

  Back outside, he flagged down a van with Enterprise Rent-A-Car on the side. That afternoon, he had reserved one of their cars online knowing he could always cancel it if the shooting had gone awry. He had even thought to find a nearby hotel to list as his local address. He didn’t intend to stay there. It was in Crystal City. Too far from Jolene.

  Once inside the Enterprise office, he saw another tired agent dealing with a rather unruly and equally tired family of five. The children kept grumbling that they were hungry while their father argued about getting a van. The clerk kept saying they were all sold out and that he might have better luck at another company. Finally, the father settled for a large sedan, filled out his paperwork, and it was Otto’s turn.

  He pulled out his new passport and credit card, gave the clerk his reservation number, listed the Crystal City Marriott as his destination, thanked the clerk for the keys, and then walked outside to locate the car. This time it was a tan Nissan Versa. He had seen a lot of them in D.C. and figured it wouldn’t attract attention. Plus, it was pretty cheap.

  Before he left the parking lot, he programmed the radio to WTOP, another station that played country, and a third that featured hard rock. He needed to keep up with the news, keep Jolene happy, and have a little musical escape for himself from time to time.

  Otto alread
y planned to tell Jolene that he had had some engine trouble with the Acura and decided to switch. He drove onto the parkway and headed to Key Bridge, Georgetown, and then the Holiday Inn. He had found a back door to the inn he would use tonight. Otto didn’t want Jolene to see him with a suitcase and start asking questions. He needed to get to his room, keep checking the news, and plan what to do next.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  TUESDAY MORNING;

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  “THIS IS UNBELIEVABLE,” ANGELA SAID, barging into Samantha’s office. “I got your text. Somebody is trying to kill you, and you’re sitting here looking calm. Or are you just trying to look calm?”

  “I guess I’m just trying to do my job,” Samantha said in a weary voice as she stared up at her friend from her desk. “Look, I’ve got the FBI with me and the Secret Service is all over it too. What else can I do but try to concentrate on other things?”

  Angela leaned over the desk and gently put her hand on Samantha’s arm. “I know, kiddo. I just worry about how you’re going to get through this. I’d be a basket case.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. I think when something like this happens, we instinctively try to find ways to cope.”

  “Maybe I can get Dr. Phil on speed dial for you,” Angela said with a half-hearted smile, pulling up a chair and sitting on the edge of it.

  “Thanks for trying to cheer me up. But seriously, when it comes to coping, look at Brett.”

  “Your FBI guy?”

  “Yes. He’s amazing. I know he’s had a lot of training, but he always manages crises so well.”

  “But we haven’t had his training,” Angela said. “We get manuals about White House operations, classified documents, best practices and ethics. And they tell us where to go if there’s a terrorist attack. But I haven’t seen any memos about what to do if some nutcase is trying to gun us down at home!”

  “I know, I know,” Samantha said. “Here I am dealing with national security, and I’ve never seriously thought about my own security. But Brett sure does.”