Plenty of options on the main drag, the Relax Inn, Shenandoah, Blue Ridge, but he’s looking for something more off the beaten track. Plus at a national chain like a Motel 6 or Days Inn, someone can easily game the reservation system to sort out three people traveling together. A couple of calls and the motel would be surrounded. The door kicked in and the three hustled off in the middle of the night. It’s the kind of mistake Vector Eleven is waiting for him to make.
Off Ross Avenue, the Pine Log Motel looks perfect. In the early morning light, Howie can tell it’s not only inconspicuous, but also nicely dilapidated, paint peeling and windows dingy, the signboard announcing Vacancy dangling by one hook.
Howie wakes up the owner by holding his finger on the bell as the clumsily handwritten card directs: Keep on buzzing ’til I show, I’m here and I want your business. It’s signed, Dede Ferry, Prop. The owner comes to the door rubbing his eyes, bare torso, pajama bottoms loosely knotted around his hips. Probably forty but years of hard living make Dede Ferry look sixty. Before he opens his mouth, Howie knows he’s found his next hideout.
“I’d like three rooms,” he says.
The owner has to scratch himself in a couple places before he can respond. “That’ll be forty-four-fifty a night per room plus county lodging tax.”
“Three rooms, I’ll pay up front for two nights.”
Howie gets a once over. “You ain’t into drugs, are you?” Ferry asks, wobbling around behind the pine-paneled counter, hitching up his pants as he heads for his reservation book. “Don’t take no offense, but there are too damn many meth dealers around these days. Blow themselves to kingdom come and burn the place to the ground before you know it.”
“We’re just tourists. Traveling through with my dad and daughter. Hope to do a little hiking.” He gets a grunt of satisfaction in return.
Howie quickly finds a nearby eatery. Esmerelda’s Hot Shoppe is two blocks away, a cuted-up former cottage with Howie’s favorite sticky buns the owner bakes herself. With a breakfast and lunch menu and her featured attraction, a gleaming chrome Italian espresso machine, it’s just what Howie needs.
The joint is also wired so Howie types out an email to Straub while he sips a latte and waits for his order. Updates Straub on their move and the situation with Risstup, then heads back to the motel with a bag and cup carrier, his laptop tucked under his arm.
In the light of day, the neighborhood looks even more rundown. One car up on blocks in the front yard, a couple crows perched on the Pine Log sign. Across the street is a scabby field overgrown with weeds, well on its way to becoming a dump, littered with discarded appliances, old tires and assorted garbage. Howie’s moved his Accord ten blocks away to a street on the other side of town in case someone reports stolen plates. The western part of town looks even seedier, full of industrial buildings and warehouses.
Howie smiles. As the ads say, Virginia is for lovers—but not this part, this one’s for losers.
“I feel like I should work for Starbucks,” Howie says as he pushes open the door to Sharon’s room. “All I do is run for coffee.”
“At least you’re good for something, Collyer.”
“How you doing with the photograph?” Howie asks as he unloads the coffees.
“Waiting until you got back.”
Standing behind Sharon and Risstup, he opens his cup and takes a sip, looking over their shoulders at the emailed photo. A family gathering, looks like in the early 1950s, everyone is in shirtsleeves, there are wreaths on the columns, a string of lights looped across the lintel over their heads. It’s a stock Christmas shot, three generations grouped together on the porch steps, grandparents, parents and children.
“Looks like a flock of Risstups here, Major. Anyone you recognize?” Sharon asks. “I imagine you were in your mid-thirties when this was taken. The woman who sent it thought this might be you. Though she was just a kid, she remembered her uncle being in the Air Force.”
Sharon points at the face of the man in the third row. “Take your time, Major Risstup. See if you recognize anyone.”
Howie and Sharon nurse their coffees, watching as Risstup’s gnarled index finger slowly traces along the first row of faces. He is concentrating, carefully scanning for a familiar face.
Nothing there, his finger creeps up to the second row.
Howie steals a look at Sharon. She’s silently pulling for the old guy. He stops at the third person from the left. Pauses. His finger slowly lifts and taps on the face, once, twice, three times. Risstup turns to look at her.
Something in the picture is prompting his memory but not enough to make a connection. Risstup’s finger returns to the screen, hovers over a face. Howie sees his eyes light up. He touches the likeness of the man in the third row again.
“That’s me . . . I think that’s me, I think it is . . .” Risstup says, glancing at Sharon first, then toward Howie. His statement is as much a question, his expression contorted like his mind is in high gear.
“Yes! Major Risstup, that’s you!” She grabs his hand and thrusts their arms into the air. “Way to go, Major. That’s at your Grandma Beverly’s house in Arcata. Arcata, California, sometime in the early 1950s.”
“Arcata . . .” Risstup says. He nods and repeats the name of the town on the northern coast of California. “Arcata, I grew up there.”
Howie sees Risstup’s face relax for the first time, as if the fog is starting to lift.
“Anything more, Major Risstup? Anything you remember about growing up there? Do you remember joining the Air Force?”
Risstup doesn’t move a muscle. He looks vacantly out across the room. Two minutes go by. The connection’s been lost.
Howie shrugs and says to her, “So much for that. At least he made one link with his past.”
“I’m not giving up.” She slides her chair closer. “C’mon, Major Risstup. You must have been in the Air Force when this picture was taken. You were on leave. You went home for Christmas. To Arcata.”
Without warning the words come tumbling out, “I was lucky to get that leave. Another pilot volunteered to take over . . .”
“You were a pilot?”
“Yes, I flew . . . I flew . . .”
Howie jumps in, “B-52s, you flew B-52s, didn’t you, Major Risstup?”
“Yes, B-52s.”
“BUFFs, they called them. BUFFs, right, Major Risstup?”
“BUFFs, yes . . .”
“And what does BUFF stand for?”
“BUFF stands for big—ugly—fat . . .” Risstup pauses, his face reddens slightly as if he’s embarrassed.
But then in a moment that Howie knows he will not soon forget, Risstup cracks an impish smile, looks up at Sharon, and in a voice with a big wink in it, says, “BUFF stands for big—ugly—fat—” and his pause is perfectly timed, “feller.”
Sharon cracks up. Howie’s chortling to beat the band.
Risstup sits in his chair enjoying his own waggish wit, clearly delighted that his mind is finally open for business.
10:04. Monday, Nov. 28—the date/time notation on the email reads. Straub’s in his Pentagon office. Out of habit, he stands and walks to the door. Closes and locks it. Not that anyone would be reading over his shoulder but it’s a clear signal that he wants to be left alone. He sits back down at the desk and reads the email from Howie.
Winn: Thanks for taking care of Sylvie and Grace. I got your message loud and clear, we just changed locations. Here’s the deal. We think this pilot’s life was in danger because he knows something—something about a bomb dropped from his B-52. A nurse from his ward is with me. I’m hoping we can rebuild his memory to find the bomb (if there is one). Time is an issue, but I hope we can work fast enough to get whatever we can get out of the pilot before they find us. I would appreciate any help you can give me but I don’t know exactly what to ask for. Maybe you can poke around DC and see what you can dig up. And stay in touch. Best, Howie.
“Holy Moses,” Straub whistles. He wonders wher
e they are hiding. Curious who the nurse is. What the pilot knows. Howie, a VA nurse and an old coot—what a combination! He’s also marveling at his college roommate. Is it his fearlessness and tenacity I should be appreciating? Or his reckless persistence? Is he a hero or someone who can’t help himself? It doesn’t matter, Winn decides. Foolhardy or courageous, the fact is few people would have taken the risk Howie has. He turns to his keyboard and types:
Howie, Good to hear from you. Glad to help with Sylvie. I know she’s dying to talk with you, I’ll try to get that set up. We could have a real opportunity here but I don’t want to put you at risk any more than we have to. Keep me up to speed on how you’re doing with the pilot. I’ll start arranging some safe houses just in case. At some point we might have to meet. So I’ll get that going also. Let’s talk every day. In the meantime, I’m going to start turning over rocks around here and see what I can come up with. Courage, buddy. Best, Winn.
Straub sends the email then opens the door of his office.
“Something I can do for you, Mr. Straub?” his executive assistant asks.
“I’m going out for a minute,” Straub answers. “You can reach me on my cell,” he says as he walks through the outer office toward the corridor.
For the world’s largest low-rise office building, on a Monday after Thanksgiving the corridors are surprisingly empty. Some romantic has set up a skimpy plastic Christmas tree outside a door. Straub turns to walk up the ramp to the next floor. The sections of the Pentagon that have not yet been remodeled have long inclines going from floor to floor. Since steel was scarce in the ’40s, instead of building stairs they poured ramps out of concrete. Straub appreciates the exercise. Forty-five minutes a day walking the halls keeps his internist happy and his weight down.
Straub walks briskly around the D ring, nodding to colonels, generals and admirals that he’s worked with over the years, only stopping to say hello to the few he is on close terms with. He is coming to a decision about the next step he’s going to take, the plan taking shape in his mind. The odds are long, everything has to work perfectly, but if it does . . .
While Straub prides himself on never allowing himself to be mawkish or inane, he can’t resist the analogy since the more it plays out in his mind, the more apt it seems. He has to resist grinning. Grinning doesn’t go over well in the corridors of the Pentagon. So he has to settle for smiling inside.
There are two ugly stepsisters in the American intelligence apparatus— Straub is scheming—the Department of Homeland Security and the Central Intelligence Agency.
And to them, I might just be holding the glass slipper.
19
Pentagon, Monday afternoon
Watt has been holed up in his SCIF since Friday—four days of pizza, Egg McMuffins and Chinese from the Pentagon food court. His driver brings him a fresh uniform from home and every morning the general showers and dresses at the POAC. He’s going to owe his wife a string of dinners as long as his arm.
Watt’s suite is now a nerve center, wires and cables snaking everywhere, the reception area packed with work stations, large screen TVs on the walls, every available surface crowded with secure phones and computers, the place is bustling with activity, normal Pentagon channels bypassed, all outside communication routing directly to him.
All day Sunday and Monday, Lieutenant Williams, the general’s aide, directed the teams erecting temporary cubicles in his waiting and conference rooms, running the necessary cables, setting up the computers and monitors so that Watt could run the operation without leaving the security and privacy of his skiff.
Though he has teams on the ground all over the East Coast and his contacts at Fort Meade are combing billions of intercepts searching for clues, so far there’s nothing on Thorsen, Risstup or Collyer.
“General Watt, it’s General Hatkin on your stew.”
Damn, that’s the third time he’s called, Watt thinks to himself. It’s been four days since the patient disappeared from the VA hospital. If I don’t have some news for him soon, he’s going to start turning up the heat.
He picks up the phone, “General Hatkin, what can I do for you, sir?” Watt says as cheerily as possible.
Hatkin’s tone of voice is gritty, it has not yet become menacing. “You haven’t let me down yet, Greg, but I’m going to have to see some progress soon.”
“I can give you an update, sir. We have almost finished setting up our unit in my offices. We’re up and running as we speak, sir.”
“That’s housekeeping, I need answers. Anything further on Collyer?”
“All we have is theories, sir. We suspect that he has not gone far from Pittsburgh. He would first want to interrogate the patient. That has to be his main objective. So he wouldn’t want to waste a lot of time traveling.”
Hatkin’s response is crisp and pointed. “I figured that out two days ago, Greg.”
Watt tries to move on. “Yes, sir, as I said, at this point in time we’re hypothesizing. I am expecting we will have some hard information soon.”
“What gives you that confidence?”
“We’re not up against a seasoned group of professionals. This is an elderly VA patient, a nurse and Howie Collyer. Sooner or later they will slip up, use a phone or go to an ATM, something, and we will nail them.”
“It can’t come soon enough, Watt. Anything on Collyer’s buddy over at CIA—Straub?”
“We’re watching him, sir.”
“That’s a no-brainer contact for Collyer. With him on the run, it would make sense to have his college roommate running interference for him.”
“So far there’s been no contact.” Watt knows he’s shading the truth. Someone is operating behind the scenes and Straub is the likely suspect since he managed to elude Watt’s people around the same time Collyer’s wife and daughter disappeared. But Watt has no hard evidence. Only suspicions. For all I know, they could be holed up in a cabin in West Virginia or hidden away at CIA’s spook farm outside Williamsburg.
“Let me know the minute you hear anything.”
“Yes, sir.” Watt is relieved to hear the line go dead.
It’s his aide at the door, “Excuse me, Sir.” Lieutenant Williams doesn’t look like he has good news. “They lost Straub again. He left his office a little after two o’clock and ditched our people somewhere in town.”
“Christ, Winn Straub’s almost sixty. How does he keep giving us the slip? He’s no Houdini.”
“My contacts at the CIA tell some pretty wild stories about him. He was in some sticky situations in the Eastern Bloc in the ’60s and ’70s. Real cloak-and-dagger stuff. Double agents, poison pills. People getting bumped off all over the place. From what I’ve heard, it doesn’t surprise me that he’s avoiding us.”
Watt wonders whose team Williams is on. He snaps at him, “Get a new group on him. We’re not going to have him roaming around the District pursuing his own agenda.”
Watt can feel the heat. Collyer and his two colleagues under cover somewhere plotting to recover a lost nuke. Winn Straub running around town pulling strings for him. Making who knows what kind of unholy alliances with whom? Plenty of wolves roaming around Washington.
Watt knows the CIA would love to embarrass the Pentagon. Homeland Security is sinking fast and looking for a life preserver and the FBI would do anything to regain its former stature. Even in the Building it’s no secret there are people who would love to smoke out and bring down Vector Eleven.
As Watt runs down the list of potential adversaries, the phrase coined by a journalist wag to describe Washington politics occurs to him: “If you want a friend in this town, get a dog.”
As he looks out the window at the thousands of cars crammed into South Parking, Watt finds himself yearning for the good old days. When he was a younger officer, there was only one enemy and everything was so much simpler. Fighting the Cold War was a cakewalk compared to terrorists and the multiple threats they presented.
I’ll take the Russians any old da
y.
20
Washington, DC, Monday afternoon
Misery loves company in the intelligence business these days, so when Winn Straub put in a call to the boss of Homeland Security and dangled an enticing tidbit, Secretary Jimmick was chomping at the bit.
Tucked away in a tranquil residential area in the historic Northwest part of DC, the Department of Homeland Security is worlds away from the imposing downtown buildings. Though its gate is fortified and armed guards patrol the entrance, 3801 Nebraska Avenue, known as the Nebraska Avenue Complex or NAC, just across Ward Circle from American University, doesn’t look like the headquarters of one of the government’s largest agencies with a multi-billion-dollar budget and almost two hundred thousand employees.
Straub knows the place well. Before the Navy took it over in the 1940s, it was the Mount Vernon Seminary, a private school for girls his mother-in-law attended sixty-some years ago. On close to forty acres, the NAC looks like a college campus, with red brick buildings, tall oaks and elms arching over the lawns and gravel paths winding between the buildings.
But Straub isn’t risking a visit to NAC. He stuffs a ten into the hand of the driver of the third cab he’s hailed, walks a block, sits at a bus stop reading a newspaper for ten minutes, then waits on the sidewalk across the street from the NAC gates, the sports section of the Post held up to cover his face.
Jimmick is right on time. Folding his paper to make sure Jimmick notices, Straub tucks the bad news about the Redskins under his arm, does a quick about-face and heads down the pathway onto the American University campus. He told Jimmick to bring a book, sit down on a bench and read. Spend five minutes on one bench then move to another. At the appropriate time, he told Jimmick, I’ll join you.
He did as he was told. As Winn suspected, the head of a major agency would jump through hoops over the tantalizing hearsay coming over the phone. It took five benches and almost a half hour before Straub was satisfied that Jimmick wasn’t being tailed. Picking brown pods off the sleeve of his topcoat from edging too far into a stand of bushes, Straub walks up to the bench and sits down next to the secretary of Homeland Security.
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