The Assassin's list

by Scott Matthews

  Drake didn’t have an answer. After finishing his coffee, he left, promising he would see Pastor Steve in church soon.

  Chapter 42

  Drake was driving back to his office when his cell phone jarred him from his thoughts about American martyrs.

  “Detective Carson just called. He’s having coffee where you saw him last. Said he needed to talk to you,” Margo said. “If you are still in the area, you might want to see him. It sounded like it was urgent.”

  “I’m on 217. I’ll turn around and go meet him. If he calls again before I get there, tell him I’m on my way.”

  He wondered what the detective had that was so urgent. He knew more than he did last week, but he wasn’t confident that Carson had made much progress. When he pulled into the Starbucks parking lot ten minutes later, Detective Carson waited for him at a window table.

  Carson stood when he entered and gestured for him to have a seat. Carson didn’t wait for him to get comfortable before he started.

  “I’m getting a lot of heat, Drake, to bring you in for questioning about some dead guys on your farm. I don’t have jurisdiction for that. I’m told it might have something to do with the murder at Martin Research. I do have jurisdiction to question you about that. I thought I’d save us both some time, and ask you up front what you might know about any connection.”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with your investigation, does it?” Drake asked. “You’re getting pressure because of the imams’ protests. Are you sure you want to hear what I might know? If you think this is going to make your life easier, you’re dead wrong.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re the guy being investigated for killing three men. You think I can just ignore that?”

  “If you’re smart, which at this point is questionable, you’ll walk away from this. Just do your job and find out who murdered Janice Lewellyn. The FBI is involved, but, if I give you some off-the-record information, will you tell me everything you’ve learned and leave this alone? Can you live with that, or do I walk out of here?”

  Detective Carson looked at Drake with a decade of resentment smoldering in his eyes before he nodded.

  “Stay. Maybe I came on a little too strong. You need to know there are people downtown who want to hang you for killing those Muslims. They don’t want another scandal, or to be accused of covering up a profile killing. Me, if guys came on my farm, with the weapons they carried, I’d kill them too. Regardless of their religious persuasion.”

  “It had nothing to do with their religious persuasion. It was dark. All I knew was, they were armed, and surrounding my home. End of story. Except I can’t believe they came after me because I was looking into the murder of Martin’s secretary.”

  “So what were you looking into?” Carson asked. “I’ve run down all the leads. None of the people I talked to looked dangerous.”

  “Did you talk with the ISIS manager? You detect anything unusual about some of the help they hired as security guards? Sam Newman did, and he’s dead. I did, after visiting ISIS, and three goons came gunning for me. That give you some clue how this all ties together?”

  Drake could see Carson didn’t want to hear what he was telling him. He didn’t want to be on the wrong end of a police investigation that the feds would probably commandeer and then would look for a scapegoat if there was a mess to clean up. He felt sorry, for a second, for the cop who’d been promoted beyond his capabilities.

  Drake softened his approach. “Look, trust me that you don’t want to get caught up in the stuff that’s out of your jurisdiction. But, if you share with me what you know, and it winds up that it’s all connected, I’ll see you get credit for all of it.”

  “Why would you do that? You’re the one who blew the whistle on me. All I did was what any cop would have done with a scumbag like that. He was going to walk unless I did something.”

  “That was then, this is now. I was just pissed you screwed up my case and the guy walked because of you. I could have won that case, regardless of what you thought. This is bigger than our past differences. Tell me what you’ve learned.”

  “Martin’s secretary was the proverbial straight arrow. Wrong place, wrong time. Martin’s the same straight arrow and a workaholic. Logs at least eighty hours a week. His employees love him,” Carson recited. “I don’t think Sam Newman committed suicide. He was a devout Catholic, and his priest said he was a regular at confession. There wasn’t enough gunshot residue on his hand, and we can’t find his dog. According to Martin, that dog would never leave his master. There just isn’t any reliable evidence that he had anything to do with the secretary’s murder, or that he killed himself. Someone else was involved, had to have been.”

  “So, where does that leave us?” Drake asked.

  “Nowhere. None of the employees at Martin Research had any problems with Mrs. Lewellyn, as far as we can tell. The reports of earlier break-ins haven’t led to anything. I’m still trying to get budget approval for an outside computer expert to go over the malfunction in the security system. The ISIS records show the entire system went down about the time we figure Mrs. Lewellyn was murdered. ISIS says it wasn’t shut off, that the system just crashed. I just don’t buy it.”

  “What do the guys at Martin Research say? Do they agree with ISIS?”

  “They say they don’t have a reason to doubt ISIS. Without access to the ISIS computers, they can’t analyze the cause of the malfunction. Personally, I think they’re scared to admit their system might not be as good as they think it is.”

  That could be, Drake thought, but it didn’t mean ISIS wasn’t lying. Sophisticated security systems are redundant security systems. If one part of the subsystem isn’t working, the system knows it immediately and switches to a backup subsystem. Proving that someone deliberately shut a subsystem off, without having access to the security system itself, would be impossible.

  “Can you demand access to the ISIS system, so you can check things for yourself? You don’t need budget approval for that,” Drake suggested. “In the meantime, I’ll give you anything I turn up if you’ll do the same.”

  Carson finished his coffee and stood when Drake did.

  “That’s not a bad idea-see if someone starts squirming. Something I’m good at. I’ll tell the folks downtown we talked,” Carson said.

  Chapter 43

  Wednesday morning broke with promise, another picture-perfect day. Drake arrived at the Portland International Airport Flightcraft terminal at 7:45 a.m. They were all waiting for him next to the Gulfstream Secretary Rallings had reserved.

  Senator Hazelton introduced him to Secretary Rallings, his aide, and the Secretary’s two-man security detail. The Secretary of DHS was shorter than he appeared in his pictures, but no less distinguished. In his late 60s, he looked every bit the former Ivy League boxer he was, powerful in his upper body, with a pugnacious bulldog face. He reminded Drake of Winston Churchill.

  His aide was a bright young MBA type hoping a stint in Washington would establish a foothold for his career. The two bodyguards were the aide’s perfect foil, a reassigned FBI agent and a former Hostage Rescue Team leader. They introduced themselves, and their former careers, in a not so subtle way. The message was clear-stay out of our way because we’re the pros.

  There was another person in the party, and from the disgusted look on her face, she hadn’t been told Drake was included. Her eyes tightened when she saw him, and her mouth turned down at the corners. It wasn’t a frown, exactly, but it sure wasn’t a smile.

  Drake shook hands with the two men traveling with the Senator. He knew them both. Bob Allen was a former Oregon State Trooper and the Senator’s personal bodyguard. Tim Richards was the Senator’s chief of staff.

  As soon as they were all seated in the Gulfstream, the pilot announced they would be airborne shortly for the flight to Hermiston, one hundred eighty-five miles east up the Columbia River Gorge. The Secretary and the Senator were seated across from each other in the first r
ow of seats, with their security details seated behind them. Drake and the others accommodated themselves in the remaining eight seats.

  Drake made a point of sitting across from Liz Strobel. As they accelerated to lift off, Strobel lost control of her composure and hissed over the roar of the engines, “You agreed to keep me informed, and now you’re trying to do my job. I resent this!”

  “I’m not here to do your job, Administrative Assistant Strobel. I’m here to protect the Senator, at his request,” he said with a smile. “You have the Homeland to protect, but you never know when a Senator might run into a crazy constituent. Surely you don’t have a problem with that?”

  “What I have a problem with is you. I stuck my neck out for you and your father-in-law. I’m not jeopardizing my career just because you’re seeing terrorists behind every bush.”

  Drake leaned toward Strobel and invaded her personal space. “You’d better pray I’m wrong, and this is just a figment of my misguided imagination. You’ve never seen a terrorist, let alone fought one, and you don’t have a clue how they think. God help us that you’re supposed to be protecting us. All you care about is your pathetic little career. Stay out of my way, and remember the day you may have underestimated the enemy, and me.”

  The rest of the short flight to Hermiston was quiet. The Secretary and the Senator talked quietly while everyone else enjoyed the scenery. Strobel sat stiffly in her seat, staring out the portside window at the river below. Drake thumbed through the Sports Illustrated he’d brought, and hoped Strobel was right and he was wrong about seeing a terrorist in every Umatilla depot uniform.

  At 8:30 a.m., the pilot announced they were approaching their destination and began their descent to the small town of Hermiston. Its small municipal airport was just twelve miles east of the depot.

  As the Gulfstream taxied toward the terminal, Drake spotted Mike’s white Yukon parked next to the one-story building that served as the city’s municipal airport terminal and flight control tower. Mike stood next to his SUV wearing a Mariner’s baseball hat, sunglasses, and a lightweight windbreaker and jeans. Drake knew the windbreaker concealed more than Mike’s lean body.

  When they were allowed to deplane, Drake led the Senator’s small party over to Mike and introduced them. While Mike was getting everyone seated, and the Secretary and his people were escorted to the vehicles the Army had provided, Drake walked over to the pilot.

  “We should be back in two hours. On the outside chance we might need to get out of here quickly, I’d appreciate it if you’d stay in or near the plane. I’m not expecting trouble, but I want you to be ready in case something happens. There are a lot of people who don’t appreciate what’s being done at the weapons depot. There are enough nuts around to make me nervous. If I call, or my friend Mike, next to the Yukon, calls, have the plane ready to take off the minute we get here. We’ll be about fifteen minutes out.”

  When he got back to the Yukon, everyone was seated for the ride to the depot.

  “Any trouble with the locals when you told them you wanted to park next to the terminal for a while?” Drake asked.

  “Not after I told them to call the Senator’s office. They’ve been visited by so many dignitaries, they’re used to the drill. You ready to roll?”

  “Roll on, amigo. Let’s see if the depot security staff is as alert as the airport people were.”

  Leaving the terminal area, they drove past a Bell 407 medical evacuation helicopter, with letters designating it as one of the life flight helicopters from the nearby Good Shepherd Medical Center. The pilot’s door on the right was open, and Drake could see the pilot sitting inside.

  “Looks like they’re ready for any eventuality here. Were you able to get the stuff we talked about?”

  “Everything’s in the back,” Mike said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “We going to be able to get all this stuff past security?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. The Senator cleared it for us. We have ID. If we’re busted, I’ll just tell them I didn’t know anything about the stuff you brought. At least I’ll be able to get the Senator through.”

  “Funny,” Mike said, without wasting a glance at Drake.

  “When we get there, I’ll accompany the Senator to the ceremony. You stay with the Yukon. My main concern is if anything happens during the ceremony, there won’t be adequate transportation for everyone. They’ve promised VIP Humvees for the Secretary and the Senator, but I want to make sure we’re able to get him out if we need to. If anything goes down, I’ll get him back to you, and you get us back to their emergency center.”

  Mike drove out of the airport and turned onto the Hermiston Highway toward I-84 and the Umatilla Weapons Depot to the west. The flat land on both sides of the highway was colored in spring green, shading to early summer brown. Overhead, contrails of fighter aircraft flying patterns over the depot crossed the sky.

  “When we get to the main gate, show our ID. Ask them to call Lt. Col. Hollingsworth and tell him we’ve arrived,” Drake directed. “He’s expecting us. We’ll be escorted directly to an area behind the speaker’s stage. We should be there early enough to do a quick walk around.”

  The drive from the airport to the main gate of the depot took ten minutes. It was nine o’clock when they arrived, and there were only a half dozen cars ahead of them at the security checkpoint. Drake was pleased to see that identification was carefully checked for every passenger in the cars ahead of them. The undercarriage of each vehicle was searched with a mirror, and a German shepherd walked around each car to detect explosives.

  When it was their turn, the Army sergeant matched picture ID with every person in the vehicle and checked each of them off his visitor list before calling Lt. Col. Hollingsworth. The sergeant then signaled for their escort, and a tan desert camo-colored Humvee pulled out to lead them.

  The depot grounds were inspection-ready neat for the ceremony. The few soldiers Drake saw were all wearing starched BDUs and spit-shined boots. The command center looked like it had a fresh touch up of paint, and the barracks off to the right had walkways lined with white rocks leading to their front doors. Lt. Col. Hollingsworth obviously had his command standing tall for the ceremony.

  The $1.2 billion chemical incinerator the Army was dedicating rose in front of them as they drove on into the depot. It was a modern-looking complex that covered a football field with its conveyors and furnaces and miles of piping. It didn’t appear that much different from newer chemical plants seen around the country.

  In the parking lot, in front of the main building of the incinerator, the Army had erected grandstand bleachers, and a speaker’s stage for the dignitaries. In front of the bleachers, a table stacked with programs was staffed by a young corporal standing at ease. Other soldiers stood, on each end of the bleachers, to assist guests. The Army was putting its best foot forward for the ceremony.

  Mike pulled the Yukon behind the stage and got out to identify himself and his passengers to the Army sergeant stationed there. While he was talking to the sergeant, Drake turned to the Senator and explained what he wanted them to do in case of an emergency.

  “If an emergency happens, for whatever reason, I want the three of you to hustle back here and get inside. Bob,” he said to the Senator’s bodyguard, “that’s your job, to get the Senator and Tim back here. This Yukon is armor plated, and we have protective equipment for everyone. I’ve been briefed on the Army’s emergency plan, and we’ll follow it. We’ll just use our own transportation. Any questions?”

  The Senator, his aide and bodyguard all nodded no. They may have thought he was being a little dramatic about the whole thing, but they were polite enough not to show it.

  “Good, then let’s enjoy the show,” Drake said, hoping that it would be one they’d all enjoy.

  Chapter 44

  The schedule of events called for Secretary Rallings and the other dignitaries to take a tour of the incinerator. They would then adjourn to a small conference room in the main i
ncinerator building, for coffee, juices, and pastries before the guests arrived and the dedication ceremony began. Following the coffee break, the honored dignitaries were to move to their respective seats, arranged by strict military protocol.

  Drake walked behind his charge as they toured the incinerator. Well-wishers greeted the Senator and reminded him of their undying support. He wondered how any man put up with the fawning for as long as the Senator had. Politicians were just servants of the people, no different than the soldiers who protected them. There weren’t many of the dignitaries who paid any attention to the high-ranking officers who stood chatting with each other. He’d seen it all before, unfortunately, the posturing of the power seekers.

  Around the conference room, Drake noted sentries posted and armed with only side arms, standard issue 9mm Berettas. Despite the assurances of the depot commander, security appeared to be concentrated on the outer perimeters of the depot.

  When it was time for the coffee break to end, Drake had to interrupt a persistent county commissioner. He was trying to convince the Senator federal money was needed to find out why Hermiston watermelons were losing market share to Texas and Florida.

  “Ya gotta do something, Senator. I’ve got farmers struggling to survive. We don’t have cheap labor, like they do in Texas and Florida. Either we got to let more immigrants in to do the work, or subsidize watermelons like corn and wheat. It ain’t fair to my constituents.”

  “Senator, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have to go. They’re waiting for you on the platform,” Drake said, taking the Senator’s arm and turning him toward the door.

  “You’re a good bodyguard, Adam, but a poor politician. The man was promising to deliver the vote of almost two percent of the population of this state. That’s everyone living in Umatilla County, if I’d just pay more attention to watermelons. Not that he could deliver on that promise, but you’ve got to listen to everyone. I had no idea Texas and Florida were our largest producers of watermelons,” the Senator said with a smile.