Designated Survivor

by John H. Matthews

  Abbasi watched after him, knowing it might be the last time he saw the man even if the mission went well. The chances of him carrying out his tasks and getting out of the building were slim.

  Two other men of European descent, Gerald Moline from the UK and Alexandre Fortier from France were the next to move out. They’d spent the last few days doing surveillance on a business down the road and were anxious to do something more than sit all day.

  The remaining four men had carried out the majority of their job two days earlier and would now be on hand to aid in the recovery of the rest of the team. The plan didn’t require all of them in the building, but they were going to be close by in case they were needed and Abbasi had plans ready for them as well.

  Glancing at his watch again, Abbasi smiled. So close, he thought. Soon it will be done.

  CHAPTER 44

  Grace woke up in his apartment and went to the kitchen to find sour milk in the refrigerator and not much else. He’d barely been there since arriving home from the mission in Russia and there’d been no time to shop. He wandered around the small apartment deciding where to head that day, not really feeling like being under the microscope of the ETTF but also wanting to avoid Buzzard Point. The rest of the team was going to the memorial service for Chip Goodson near the ocean in Maryland. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go; it was just best to avoid any unnecessary questions about his relationship with Chip. The team was under orders to avoid interactions outside their group and to get out as quickly as they could. Mourning is important, but he needed them ready.

  He found one clean pair of khakis and pulled an Army Rangers tee shirt on, his way of honoring Chip that day, then a striped and untucked dress shirt over the tee. The pants easily covered the small Glock he kept on his ankle and the shirt somewhat obscured the nine-millimeter pistol on his side. At the door he stopped to see the repairs the landlord had done to the lock after Arrington’s bodyguards had smashed their way in four days earlier.

  Outside he walked to the far edge of his apartment’s parking lot to his car. It had sat unused for two weeks, a layer of dust covering the shiny black paint of the twin turbo BMW M5 sedan. He’d bought the car used and had some work done to it at a shop in Wheaton, Maryland that specializes in armoring personal vehicles. He never drove the BMW on missions, but still felt safer knowing that nothing short of a .50 caliber shell could penetrate the glass or sheet metal that surrounded him. The engine had been modified to handle the extra weight.

  The engine came to life with a light tap of the start button to the right of the steering wheel. Grace turned on the stereo and spun the volume knob up as the mp3 player in the glove box pushed the song “Vicarious” by Tool to the speakers. He threw the shifter into first gear, let out the clutch, and let the rear tires spin for a second as he launched from the parking space. At the exit onto the street he considered heading out on a drive to clear his mind, cruising the high-powered car towards the Shenandoah Valley or even West Virginia, but decided to save that for another day and took a right to head to Herndon.

  The drive didn’t take long enough for him that morning and as he cleared the security gate he wished he’d opted for Skyline Drive instead, but he parked the car and went in.

  The ETTF was busy for eight in the morning and he looked around at the constant motion of suits and uniforms. He then saw Ben Murray sitting at his desk and went over to him.

  “Thought you were going with the rest of them,” Grace said.

  “Didn’t know him that well,” Ben said. “And I wanted to get back to work.”

  “I understand,” Grace said. “Find anything new?”

  “Not much. A few photos of Graham with his cofounder of Cunningham,” Ben said.

  “Oh, wait,” Grace pulled his phone out and handed it to Ben. “When Netty and I were at their offices I took a bunch of photos of the CEO’s walls. Something else to go through.”

  Ben plugged the phone in and glanced through the images stored on the internal card and copied them to a folder on his desktop. “I’ll see if there’s anything there.” He stopped, looking past Grace.

  Turning, Grace saw Richard Graham and his partner walk into the ETTF and over to the growing group of Capitol Hill dignitaries.

  “Why’s William with him?” Grace said.

  “Didn’t you hear?” Ben said. “Graham made him his chief-of-staff.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Fired his old one in cold blood over the phone,” Ben said. “Had a press release out five minutes later.”

  “Ballsy,” Grace said. “Guess he wanted to make sure they never got separated again.”

  Derek Arrington emerged from the group in the middle of the room and came over. “Been talking to Monroe,” he said.

  “Yeah?” Grace said. “How’d that go for you?”

  “Better than you might think,” Arrington said. “He thinks the Cunningham connection is too big to ignore. He isn’t putting any weight behind your theory yet, but he wants to cover his ass just in case.”

  “So . . . ”

  “So, we’re going to talk to Graham,” Arrington said.

  “Incredible,” Grace said. “I’ll do it.”

  “No way,” Arrington said. “I’ve seen how you talk to people. Five minutes in and you’ll be waterboarding him. This needs to be handled by Justice. We’re going to get him to a room without causing a stir. Monroe will do the talking. You can be in the observation room.”

  “What about William?” Grace said. “I think he’s permanently stuck to Graham’s side now.”

  “We’ll have Amanda distract him,” Arrington said. “Tell him he needs to complete some new security checks as Graham’s chief-of-staff.”

  Arrington and Grace went down the hall and opened a private room then went next door and got set up to record. On the monitors they saw Monroe lead Richard Graham into the room and ask him to sit down as he closed the door behind them. Graham looked at the cameras mounted in the corners then to Monroe as he sat down.

  “What’s this about?” Graham said.

  “Just need your help with something,” Monroe said. “You were president of Cunningham Construction, correct?”

  “Cunningham?” Graham said. “We’re in the middle of a national security crisis and you’re asking me about Cunningham?”

  “Just a few questions, Richard,” Monroe said. “We’re following up on a few things and feel you’re the best person to talk to. Why did you leave Cunningham?”

  “I started the company. I left when Abrams asked me to run transportation,” Graham said. “I’m very confused here. Why are we talking about Cunningham right now?”

  “Did you know they had a contract to do work in the south wing of the Capitol a few months ago?” Monroe said.

  “No, I didn’t,” Graham said. “But good for them. I wasn’t sure they’d amount to much after I left.”

  “No faith in your co-founder?” Arrington said.

  “Plenty in him, not much in the company that bought them a while back,” Graham said.

  Monroe glanced at his handwritten notes in the brown leather book he kept in his suit pocket at all times. “So you were president when Cunningham was purchased by Whitlock?”

  “CEO, and yes, I was,” Graham said. “We were struggling and got a good deal. Whitlock put some money into the company and turned it around. At first they really just wanted to absorb our assets and take over our clients, but I convinced them we had a name, a reputation.”

  Jim Monroe looked up to watch Graham as he continued, wanting to gauge his reaction. “Cunningham is suspected to have been involved in placing the explosives in the Capitol,” he said.

  “What?” Graham looked at the cameras again. “Is this why . . . ? Are you interrogating me?”

  “Not at all. When we saw your connection to them we thought you might have some knowledge of the inner workings of the company that could help us out,” Monroe said.

  In the next room Arrington and Gr
ace watched as the conversation was being recorded.

  “They were the only firm with access in the areas the explosives were known to have been located,” Monroe said. “The type of work they were doing would have given them all the access they needed to hide the C4.”

  “You’re delirious,” Graham said. “Why would they do that? And how? Their employees have been with them for years. It’s just impossible.”

  “They used contractors to do the work, so very few company employees were on site,” Monroe said. “This could have allowed them to bring in explosives experts.”

  “Even still, what does this have to do with me?” Graham said. “I have nothing to do with the company anymore.”

  “Again, just some groundwork before we dig deeper into them. I appreciate your assistance,” Monroe started to stand up then stopped. “Oh, you ran for Senate a few years ago, right?”

  “Ancient history,” Graham said. “Lost by six percent.”

  “Who’d you lose to?” Monroe said.

  “The way you’re asking I get the feeling you already know,” Graham said. “Rebekah Abrams.”

  “That why she appointed you to her cabinet?” Monroe said.

  “I guess,” Graham said. “The call surprised me when it came. She promised in her campaign to reach across the aisle so I figured she picked me because she thought she could control me. But I don’t hold a grudge and in politics you just don’t turn down a Cabinet position.”

  “True,” Monroe said. “One more thing. Can I take a look at your phone?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Totally voluntary,” Monroe said. “I’d just like to take a look.”

  “Why?” Graham reached into his inside suit jacket pocket and set the phone on the table.

  Monroe picked it up and tried to access it. “Would you mind unlocking it for me?”

  “0812,” Graham said.

  Monroe tapped the four digits in and it gave him access.

  “Really, can you tell me why you want to see my phone?” Graham said. “This is feeling more and more like I’m about to be accused of something.”

  Going through the menus on the Android based phone, Monroe found the outgoing calls list.

  Grace turned to Arrington in the next room. “What’s he doing? I thought he wasn’t on board?”

  Arrington shrugged. “Beats me. He must have seen something we didn’t in his reactions.”

  After looking through the call history Monroe turned the phone to show Graham the screen. “Can you tell me who this number belongs to?”

  “I have no idea,” Graham said. “I make a lot of calls and can’t remember who all the numbers belong to.”

  “This call was made at 1:38pm on Wednesday,” Monroe said.

  “I don’t know. I don’t recall making a call,” Graham said. “But I have been a bit busy.”

  “Richard,” Monroe said. “The Capitol blew up at 1:38pm on Wednesday.”

  Graham sat back in his seat and grew quieter. “What are you saying?”

  “This number belongs to a burner phone that was located at the top of the south wing of the Capitol, above the House of Representatives.”

  Graham stared at the FBI director.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?” Monroe said. “We have reason to believe your phone made the call that caused the explosion.”

  “That, that’s just impossible.”

  “Anything you want to say?” Monroe said.

  “No. I just—” Graham’s voice faded. “It’s not possible.”

  “I’m going to need you to stay in here,” Monroe said. “You aren’t being arrested at this time, but we’re going to detain you until we have more facts. If at any time you decide you have more to tell me, let the guard at the door know.”

  Monroe stood and left the room as Richard Graham sat still, his eyes staring down at the table in front of him. The FBI director came through the door of the observation room.

  “What the hell, Jim?” Arrington said. “I thought you were just going to talk to him.”

  “I was a prosecutor for nearly twenty years,” Monroe said. “You learn to tell when people are lying. And he’s lying.”

  Grace pointed at the monitor still recording the room next to them. “Look at him,” he said. “He’s freaking out.”

  “He should be,” Arrington said. “Okay. Now you’d better lock this down and get the rest of the proof. We can’t hold him forever.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Ormand Baasch got off of the commuter bus and walked down the street to the security entrance of the Homeland Security campus. His chances of being stopped right here were high, but it was the plan Abbasi had set in motion and their only option for quick entry into the machinery building. He stepped up to the guard booth with his wallet already in his hand and watched as a uniformed officer stepped out of the sliding door. Baasch could tell the solidly built black man was strong, even though he stood several inches shy of six foot tall and the bulletproof vest was tight around his abdomen. He had almost a foot on the officer but knew he wasn’t someone to get through easily in combat. The Sig Sauer seemed like an afterthought on the officer’s waist, almost unnecessary. He knew he could take the man down but hoped he wouldn’t have to that day.

  “Where are you coming from?” the guard said.

  Baasch motioned back toward Centreville Road. “Bus. Don’t have a car right now.” He handed his driver’s license to the officer. “It’s my first day, trying not to be late.”

  The officer looked at the name on the license and glanced at the list on a clipboard hanging just inside the guard booth. “I don’t have you on the list.”

  Baasch shook his head and looked across the parking lot. “Shoulda known,” he said. “He’s probably sitting there eating a box of donuts, not even remembering I’m supposed to be here today. The placement agency warned me about him.”

  The officer looked at Baasch’s blue workpants and grey shirt with his name embroidered on it. “You’re talking about Ferguson, right?”

  “Yeah,” Baasch said. “Couldn’t stand the guy but its good work. He’s a bit of a, well . . . ”

  “Racist asshole?” the officer said.

  Baasch laughed. “You’ve met him, I guess.”

  “I see the looks he gives me when he rolls through here in the mornings, usually half an hour late,” the officer said. “I haven’t even seen him yet today.”

  “Shit,” Baasch said. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Hold on,” the officer stepped inside the booth and picked up the phone receiver.

  Baasch readied himself. If he acted fast enough he thought he could disarm the officer then shoot him with his own weapon, push him inside the booth and make the run across the parking lot to the machinery building within 60 seconds. It would take him at least five minutes to carry out his task but as soon as the officer was found the entire compound would be placed on lockdown. As he continued to consider his options the officer stepped back out.

  “Head on over,” the man said. “I’m sure Ferguson will be here soon. Just wait for him there.” The same small white car that transported him a few days earlier for his interview pulled up inside the fence and the officer gave the driver a wave. “Carlos will drive you over.”

  Baasch nodded as he took his license back. “Thanks. Really appreciate it.”

  “We’re all just workin’,” the officer said.

  The gate rolled to the right just wide enough for him to walk through. The three large posts that lowered into the ground to stop cars and trucks from smashing through stayed raised. As he stepped through, Baasch was stiff, waiting for them to try to grab him. He got into the passenger door of the small Chevy and it drove him across the lot and dropped him right outside the machinery building then left him.

  Up the three metal stairs to the trailer that housed the office, Baasch pulled out his cellphone and sent a message to Abbasi, letting him know he’d actually breached the compound.
The door to the trailer was unlocked and he went in. A Latino man sat in a chair beside the coffee maker on the other end from Ferguson’s desk.

  “Hola,” Baasch said. “Como estas?”

  “Bien,” the man said. “And I speak English.”

  “Whew. I’d reached my limit on how much Spanish I know,” Baasch said. “Coffee any good?”

  “It’s shitty,” he said, “Ferguson buys the cheapest stuff he can for us. While he has that thing.” The man pointed to a small table behind the foreman’s desk.

  A large black coffee maker that took single serve containers sat there, with a metal rack full of name brand coffee pods beside it.

  “Yeah. He seems like a dick,” Baasch said.

  The man walked past him and patted his shoulder on the way out of the trailer. “You’ll do just fine here.”

  Baasch looked around. He hadn’t seen any cameras on his first trip to the trailer but wanted to make sure. When he didn’t see any he went around to the other side of the desk and pulled the top drawer open. Just inside sat the key ring. He took the keys and was about to close the drawer when he saw the edge of a clear plastic case and he pulled it out. It was an ID badge with Larry Ferguson’s face on the front and the black stripe across the back. He grabbed it and left the trailer.

  Around the corner was the secure door to the main machinery building. He held up the ID and swiped it across the pad to the right of the door. After a series of beeps he heard a click and pushed the door open and walked through. He had expected to have to disable an employee and use their badge to gain access. Ferguson’s laziness had made his job easier.

  The top end of the huge heating and air conditioning unit was in front of him. He stepped forward to the metal railing and looked down to the lower floor where the six huge boilers sat, pushing hot water through miles of tubing to send warm air through the vents to keep the three large office buildings heated. He had seen a couple of cameras on the lower level and kept them in mind as he worked his way around to the backside to the stairs, keeping his head turned away from the cameras. He jogged down the stairs and jumped down the final two steps and landed on the concrete floor. It was much louder with the machines in front of him and he wouldn’t be able to hear if someone came in up above.