High Treason

by John Gilstrap

  Irene gestured with an open palm to the man Jonathan recognized. “Douglas Winters, meet Jonathan Grave of Fisherman’s Cove, Virginia.” To Jonathan, she added, “And as you guessed, Mr. Winters is the president’s chief of staff.”

  Winters flashed a politician’s smile and extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure,” he said.

  Jonathan hated politicians’ smiles. They rang too many warning bells. But there was no reason not to shake hands. He said nothing, though.

  The smile faltered. “I’m getting the feeling that maybe you didn’t vote for my boss,” Winters said.

  “I don’t remember who I voted for,” Jonathan said, refusing to rise to the bait. “Far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter. Been sent to war by both parties, been lied to by both.” On the spectrum of species that Jonathan admired, politicians occupied a spot significantly south of the sand flea.

  “And to think you were never a diplomat,” Irene said. “This is Jonathan’s business partner, Boxers.”

  Winters’ eyes flashed. “Boxer? More like mastiff, if you ask me. You’re a big fella.”

  This time, Boxers looked less concerned about hurting the hand he shook, and the corners of Winters’ eyes twitched from the pressure. Boxers didn’t like to be teased.

  Irene next gestured toward the shortest of the suits, the one whose distended jacket spoke of a holstered pistol. “And this is Director Ramsey Miller,” she said. “My counterpart at the United States Secret Service.”

  Miller nodded instead of shaking, and that was fine with Jonathan.

  “Quite the high-level meeting,” Jonathan said. “Secrecy, too. You’ve got my attention.”

  “Have you paid attention to the news this morning, Mr. Graves?” Miller asked.

  “It’s Grave,” Jonathan corrected. “No S. Get to it.”

  Every clandestine meeting Jonathan had ever attended—and there’d been hundreds of them over the years—presented a kind of tarantella that required early posturing. Such meetings always involved strong personalities, and all of the players wanted to be in charge. Jonathan thought of it as dick-knocking, and in this case, since he was clearly the one with the skills that others wanted, he got to be the obnoxious one.

  “The news reported a drive-by shooting last night,” Irene said, hijacking the narrative. “Six Secret Service agents were killed.”

  Actually, that did ring a bell. “At a DC nightclub, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  Jonathan gave another nod to Miller. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” He meant it, too. Losing a member of your unit felt like losing a member of your family.

  Miller said, “Thank you.”

  Jonathan said, “Not to get ahead, but the fact that we’re here leads me to believe that maybe the media got a few details wrong?”

  Miller deferred to Winters. “Well, they got it right insofar as they reported what we told them.”

  “Uh-oh,” Boxers grumbled.

  Winters continued. “The version of the story floated to the media has the agents dying on their own time during a random shooting. In reality, they were on duty, and protecting the First Lady.”

  Boxers rumbled out a chuckle. “I knew this was going to be good.”

  Jonathan said, “Was she stepping out again to someplace embarrassing?”

  “She was kidnapped, Mr. Grave,” Winters said.

  Jonathan’s jaw dropped. He didn’t surprise easily, but this one nailed him. He waited for the rest.

  “That’s all we know,” Winters said. “Her entire detail was killed, and she was taken away.”

  “By whom?” Jonathan asked.

  “We don’t know.”

  Jonathan looked to Irene. “How is that possible? She’s the First-freakin’-Lady. How does she get out of anyone’s sight?”

  “The first step is to kill her security detail,” Miller said.

  Okay, this was getting circular. “What do you want from us?” Boxers asked. “You’re the FBI.”

  “We want to keep this incident low profile,” Winters said.

  A laugh escaped from Jonathan’s throat before he could stop it. Irene put a hand on his arm to silence him.

  “These are difficult times,” Winters said. “Our enemies feel more empowered than they have in years—”

  And whose fault is that? Jonathan didn’t ask.

  “—financial markets are fragile. Americans’ confidence in their government is at an all-time low. If this news leaked out, the results could be devastating.”

  “Shouldn’t it be devastating?” Jonathan asked. “I mean, agents are dead and the First Lady is being held hostage. That’s pretty damned hot stuff.”

  “Of course it is,” Winters said. “We’re willing to move heaven and earth to clear this up. That’s why we’re turning to you, Mr. Grave.”

  Boxers laughed. “You’re shitting me, right? What, you got more important things to take care of? The president too consumed with raising campaign money to devote time to this little detail?”

  Winters shot a forefinger at Boxers’ nose. From the posture, he might have been pointing at a hole in the ceiling. “Watch yourself,” he snapped.

  Boxers growled.

  “Let it go, both of you,” Jonathan said. “Why us? You are, you know, the federal government. A few million folks in uniform and all that.”

  “It’s a domestic matter,” Miller said. “The military is banned by law.”

  “Jesus.” Jonathan turned to Irene. “And last time I checked, you have a few ambitious people working for you, too.”

  Irene held up her hands. “Don’t think I haven’t offered.”

  “We can’t risk it,” Winters said. “The news is just too big. To do what we have to do would require the involvement of courts and other law enforcement agencies. There’s no way the secret wouldn’t leak out.”

  “And the secret is more important than Mrs. Darmond’s life?”

  “Of course not,” Winters scoffed.

  “But kinda?” Jonathan prompted.

  Winters set his jaw and took a loud, deep breath. “Are you willing to help us or not?”

  Jonathan squinted and looked to Boxers for a hint to what he was missing. “You’re not willing to trust the entire United States government, but you’re willing to trust me? How does that work?”

  Winters nodded toward Irene. “You come very highly recommended. Director Rivers assures me that you’re very good at what you do, and that you know how to keep secrets. We’ll give you all the access you need. And we’ll pay your gate rate.”

  Jonathan started to say something, but Irene cut him off. “Do this for us, Dig,” she said. “I swear to you that we’ll give you all the resources you need.”

  “People?”

  “Except people. We figure that we’ve got some time to work. Whoever took Mrs. Darmond hasn’t yet contacted us with a ransom demand, and they haven’t put her picture up on a website. That means they want this to stay quiet, too. Or, they’re waiting for us to break the news.”

  “Or maybe they’re in the process of killing her now,” Boxers offered.

  “In which case, we still have the benefit of time,” Miller said. “If she is dead, then she will be no less dead in a week.”

  In a twisted way, Jonathan actually admired the honesty, despite the coldness of the delivery. “Does the president know about this?” he asked.

  “Of course he does,” Winters replied. “He’s worried sick, but he also understands the gravity of the global concerns.”

  Boxers shook his head. “You’re telling me that in the entirety of the US government, you can’t cobble together a handful—” He stopped and turned his gaze to Jonathan.

  They both got the Big Picture at the same instant. “You want us to break the law,” Jonathan said.

  “We want you to find the First Lady,” Miller said, and he looked like the words might have upset his stomach.

  Jonathan looked to Irene. She shrugged with her eyebrows. “If
we follow the rules, we leave a paper trail. The paper trail will most certainly be leaked, and then it will be followed.”

  Just to be sure, Jonathan said, “No warrants, no due process?”

  “I’m told this might not be the first time you’ve done that,” Winters said. “In fact, rumor has it that you might have had something to do with thwarting an assassination attempt at one point.”

  “Not that they have any evidence to that effect,” Irene said interjected quickly.

  Jonathan’s mind raced. If Irene hadn’t been in the room, he’d have been out of there. But she had so much cred with him that he was nearly willing to ignore the warning bells in his head. At least temporarily.

  “What about prosecuting the bad guys?” Boxers asked. Most of their conversations in the past had implied dire consequences for the Security Solutions team if they’d sullied evidence and therefore endangered the government’s case.

  “Not all that much of a concern to us,” Miller said. “If you can find Mrs. Darmond, we don’t care what happens to the people who took her.”

  Jonathan’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying you want us to kill them.”

  “I’m saying that we don’t care one way or the other.”

  Jonathan shifted his eyes to the White House chief of staff. “I want to hear you say that.”

  Winters didn’t drop a beat. “We don’t care one way or the other what happens to the kidnappers.”

  Boxers said, “Cool.”

  Jonathan held up a hand for silence and drilled his gaze through Winters. “Then we’ll let them go,” he said. “We’re not assassins.”

  The words hung untouched. The unspoken truth was that each of them knew people who were assassins, but no one wanted it on even this small a record.

  “Are you in or not?” Winters said, finally.

  “What happens in three or four days if we can’t make this thing happen?” Jonathan asked. “People are going to find out.”

  “And if they do, we’ll handle it,” Winters said. “We’d prefer that it not get to that. If it does, then we can take over the whole operation. You’ll be off the hook and the world’s economy and security will be destabilized.”

  Jonathan ears grew hot. It was a cheap shot to lay all of that at his feet. “I’ll shoulder the responsibility that I sign on for, Mr. Winters. I don’t do politics.” He turned to Irene. “What resources do I get?”

  “Whatever you need. In fact, I’ve got something for you both.” She reached into the pocket of her suit jacket and produced two pocket-sized leather folders, which she handed to Jonathan. He recognized them as FBI credentials. “I believe you already have the appropriate badges. But you need new names.”

  The old aliases were now permanent fixtures on the Interpol list of fugitives. Jonathan thumbed open the first folder and saw Boxers’ picture. “Here you go, Jason Kaufman,” he said, passing it over. He noted that his own read Richard Horgan. “Are these real?” he asked.

  “Real enough to get you through a background check, but not enough to get you a pension.”

  Jonathan craned his neck to get Boxers’ vote.

  “I’m in,” Big Guy said.

  This was a mistake. Enough of the circumstances didn’t make sense, and the fingers of the kidnapping reached far too high into the world power structure for any good to come of this, but Irene had never once said no to him when he needed her.

  “Fine,” he said with a sigh. “Start at the beginning and tell me everything you know.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  David knew he was in trouble the instant he heard his cell phone ring. He’d gone home to his apartment at the Watergate after work and scarfed down the rest of last night’s Stouffer’s lasagna. After a pair of Yueng-lings, he’d decided to lie on the sofa to watch the news.

  And now it was 8:05.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  David snatched up the phone from the coffee table and swiped the virtual slide bar to answer it. “Deeshy,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m late. I’m on my way.”

  “Jesus, David, this is scary shit, okay? I’m not kidding. How close are you?”

  “I’m driving out of the garage now,” David said, pushing his left foot into his black Ecco loafer.

  “No shit? You’re not like just waking up, right? Promise me?”

  “No, dude, I’m like ten minutes away. I swear.”

  “David, this is important,” DeShawn said. “You’ve got to hurry. I think I might’ve bit off way too much on this one. I’m in serious deep shit.”

  David snatched the key fob off the Kirkland dresser he’d bought to fill the empty spot in the foyer. Its drawers were empty, but the long, wide, faux ebony–inlaid surface made a terrific key fob holder. “I’m turning out of the garage now. I’m surprised you can’t hear the traffic noise.”

  “Just hurry, okay?” DeShawn sounded close to tears.

  For the very first time since their conversation this morning, David wondered if the big black cop might actually be in trouble. Real trouble, not the imagined crap that he usually conjured up for himself. “What’s wrong, Deeshy? I mean, truly. You’re like really spun up. What’s going on?”

  “Not on the phone.”

  “Jesus, Deeshy.”

  “Get here, okay? Just get here and bring your whole fourth estate with you.”

  God pulled that string at the base of David’s spine that launched a shiver through his body. “Dude, you’re a cop—”

  “Not for this, I’m not. This is about cops, okay? Feds. Secret Service. I’m gonna hang out in the Smithsonian Metro Station where there are people and it’s a little warmer. Call me when you’re close. For real close. Earn a ticket for this one, okay?” DeShawn hung up.

  Deep in that cynical place where David preferred to live his life, he wanted to dismiss this as bullshit. DeShawn so wanted to break the big case, and the sensible part of David’s brain told him that this was mostly a made-up emergency.

  Then there was the other part that heard the impending tears in his friend’s voice, the genuine fear. It turned out that fear begat fear, which pounded like a drum in David’s temples as he fast-walked to the elevator. He’d have loved to believe that his fear was rooted in an empathetic, philanthropic concern for his friend, but who was he kidding? David was scared shitless of getting into the middle of anything that scared a gun-toting officer of the law in a city as corrupt as Washington, DC. Hell, ex-mayors got to smoke crack before they’re reelected to the city council, and then don’t have to pay speeding tickets or federal income tax after they beat their wives and watch kiddie porn. If a cop in that environment is this scared, what the hell business did a Radford journalism grad have getting involved?

  The elevator took David to the parking garage, where his black Honda Civic sat waiting in the parking space that came with his rent. The car chirped as he pushed the unlock button, and David climbed inside. The door was barely closed when the engine roared to life. Two minutes later, he was clear of the garage and on his way to God only knew what.

  Earn a ticket.

  David Kirk knew the streets of Washington as well as anyone, and he made good time. By this time of night, the congressional staffers had all gone home, and the lobbyists were done feting their clients in the big-name restaurants along the K Street corridor, leaving the city looking like someone had dropped a neutron bomb on the place—all the structures were there, but no one was inside. Visiting businessmen might be cramming the lobby bars at the Mayflower or the Saint Regis, but in the wide swath of real estate known as the National Mall, homeless vagrants outnumbered everyone else three to one.

  That meant there was plenty of parking.

  David punched DeShawn’s speed dial as he swung the turn onto Jefferson Street SW to tell him that he was only a quarter mile away. After five rings, the call went to voice mail and he hung up.

  David nosed into a space twenty yards past the swollen phone booth of a building that marked the entrance to Ripley Center,
more or less splitting the distance between the carousel and the Smithsonian Metro Station. If he hadn’t already slept through the meeting time, he might have waited in the car with the motor running while Deeshy climbed the steps from the Metro platform, but as it was, he owed his friend the courtesy of meeting halfway. He pulled the brake and killed the engine.

  The frigid air felt like a wall as he climbed out of the Honda. He raised the collar of his peacoat against it, wishing that he’d thought to bring a stocking cap. He hated to embrace the reality of his thinning hair, but there was no denying the fact that breezes were a hell of a lot colder than they used to be.

  The Smithsonian Castle loomed red and huge to his right, and as he crossed the street he cast a glance to the dormant and unused carousel, whose galloping horses, draped in shadows, seemed frozen in space and time. What was it about circus icons—clowns chief among them—that felt so very creepy?

  He was still in the middle of the street when he tried Deeshy’s phone again. It didn’t make sense to go all the way down the escalator to the station just to come back up again thirty seconds later. He brought the phone to his ear and listened as it rang.

  As he listened with his left ear, his right brought the sound of the reggae jingle that David recognized as Deeshy’s ringtone. Rather than coming from the station below, it was from the direction of the carousel. He turned, expecting to see his buddy waving and walking toward him, but instead saw nothing but carousel, naked trees, and the deserted Mall.

  He was still squinting into the wind when the ringing in the night stopped, and Deeshy’s voice mail greeting kicked in. “If you don’t know who you’re calling, I’m not leaving a hint. Speak.”

  David clicked the phone off.

  “Deesh?” he called at a whisper into the night. “Deeshy, you’re creeping me out, dude.”

  The night returned only the sound of the wind, and honest to God, it felt as if the temperature dropped another ten degrees.

  A little louder, he said, “Come on, Deeshy, I know I was an asshole to be late, but this isn’t funny.” Still nothing.