Flight of the Fox

by Gray Basnight

  “Truck one, in place. All units respond.”

  The response squawked in his ear, one by one:

  “Watergate Hotel lobby. All set.”

  “Virginia Avenue east of Watergate Hotel. All set.”

  “Virginia Avenue west of Watergate Hotel. I’m set too.”

  “Watergate, sixth floor of hotel. I’m here.”

  “Watergate Hotel, north front, on foot. Ready.”

  “Watergate Hotel, main parking garage. I’m in place.”

  Fine. Everyone was where they should be. Donnursk leaned back in the chair and waited.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  So far, so good.

  Sam Teagarden breathed deep relief when they parked the Jeep Cherokee in the basement garage and rode the Watergate elevator without challenge.

  Danford Shackton’s apartment was elegantly decorated in a 1930’s Art Deco style, with a balcony view of a GW University dormitory across Virginia Avenue that was once a Howard Johnson’s Hotel. In its hotel days, it played a key role in the scandal more than two generations earlier that exposed extraordinary foolishness and paranoia in American government. It’s where the CIA lookout man for the Watergate burglary team was stationed with binoculars. Teagarden had come to believe that Watergate and Vietnam were a fulcrum in American history that ended all public naïveté. Before Watergate and Vietnam, people believed in their government; afterward, they didn’t. It was that simple.

  And here he was, trying to tell people they had no idea just how bad those years really were. The Dear John File would only add to that era’s crimes and hypocrisy by re-opening old wounds and making them hemorrhage all over again. The idea worried him. Would people really want to know, or would they prefer to just turn the page? Maybe no one would care, or worse, they’d blame the messenger.

  Though it was pre-dawn, Shackton was prepared for his guests. He was dressed in a dark suit and had a full pot of coffee ready in the kitchen. He was a slender man, with an old world charm brimming with formal courtesy. Teagarden noticed that his hands had unusually long fingers, which made him wonder if Shackton played the piano. He learned the answer when they walked from the kitchen with their coffee mugs to the living room where a baby grand prominently occupied one corner.

  They thanked him for taking the risk of admitting two fugitives into his home, one of whom was wanted for child murder. Shackton assured them in a professionally courteous voice that he did have concerns, but that his respect for Cynthia was his reason for allowing the meeting.

  Teagarden let her do the talking. She related the full story to her friend. At the part about the decoded file, Teagarden handed over the thirty-four pages for Danford Shackton’s examination. His host took his time flipping through them, carefully reading every deciphered entry. He was quick, yet it seemed to take ages. Afterward, the stress factor increased when Shackton took more time to look off into empty space.

  “If this document is authentic,” he said finally, “it’s rather like the Rosetta Stone in reverse.”

  “How so?” Cynthia asked.

  “Well, it’s like this,” Shackton said. “When the Frenchman, Mr. Champollion, deciphered the Rosetta Stone, he presented the human race with a historic treasure. It was a wonderful insight into a once-great civilization. We could finally understand the people of ancient Egypt. They could speak to us some two-thousand years later.”

  He turned to gaze into Teagarden’s eyes. Teagarden held still, fearing that Shackton was set to give voice to the very thing he’d been worrying about. He was afraid that if no one wanted to know this truth, he’d be abandoned to face phony murder charges.

  “Yes?” Cynthia said. “And…?”

  “And—instead of a blessing, this is more of a curséd insight into a civilization that may not be as great as we thought.”

  “Dan, are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Irritation bleeding into her voice.

  Shackton thumbed the pages as his thoughts turned inward. He looked into their eyes. Cynthia first, then Teagarden. He thumbed the pages again. An antique clock ticked noisily somewhere down the hall.

  “No,” he said finally. “No, I’m not saying what you think I’m saying. My mind is made up. The very thing that makes this country great is the will to allow truths to be told. All truths. Including truths that reflect back at us with toxic radiation.”

  Teagarden heard himself exhale with relief.

  “Mr. Teagarden, I have a home office down the hall, and in that office I have a copier. I would like to take these pages there. I would like to scan them and simultaneously fax them to my staff and the full House committee, together with a memo detailing the story behind them. But I want something in return.”

  Teagarden looked at Cynthia. He guessed what was coming.

  “And what’s that?” she asked.

  “I want you to surrender. Not to the FBI or the D.C. Metropolitan Police, but to another investigative agency. Then, if this is proven valid, as I believe it will be, you will be totally exonerated.” He thumbed the pages again. “Given the extraordinary nature of this document, you may become something of a heroic figure, though, of course, you’ll be reviled in many circles, which will be difficult for you.”

  It was Cynthia who again broke the silence.

  “Dan, it’s an interesting proposition. Of course, Sam cannot, that is, we cannot stay on the run forever. But—”

  “The committee I manage for the House has an investigative arm,” he interrupted. “We hold witnesses in camera all the time. The CIA and FBI are not the only federal agencies whose budgets pay for safe houses. The difference is that, in my safe house, no one drowns you in a bathtub and calls it waterboarding. We just house and feed you until it comes time to testify before Congress.”

  “No offense, Dan, but there are different forms of torture. Can you give us a heads-up on the general location and conditions?”

  “Suburban Maryland. It’s not the high life, but it does have all the comforts of home, including a fully stocked kitchen.”

  “I can’t speak for Sam, but a kitchen is not a strong attraction for me,” she said, with a note of sarcasm.

  “I apologize,” Shackton said. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Here are the facts. The groceries are bought for you but you do your own food prep. You will have full use of the house, patio, and private backyard. Any reasonable need or basic necessity will be met, including medical. The fact of your confinement will be made public but not your location. As for police and reporters, I personally will see to it that they are—not—informed of your whereabouts.”

  “You have the authority to defy an FBI subpoena?” she asked.

  “Oh, most certainly I do. My committee’s purpose enjoys clandestine protection of national security at the highest level. That ranks far above any fugitive warrant, FBI or otherwise. In fact, I doubt they would bother to challenge me in court.” He waved the thirty-four pages in the air as he spoke. “But if they did, I would have so much fun embarrassing them with this, they’d fast give it up.”

  Teagarden and Cynthia exchanged glances that betrayed mixed feelings. His shoulders had a vague slump, her head nodded ever so slightly as she regarded him. They knew that their run from black-ops feds, police, and sheriffs had to end, and they knew that this was as good a deal as they could possibly hope to receive under the circumstances. But neither of them wanted to say it out loud to the other.

  Teagarden made the call.

  “Yes, you certainly may,” he said.

  “May what?” Shackton asked.

  “You asked if you may scan and fax the pages and send a memo. My answer is yes. Yes, you may. And you called me ‘Mr. Teagarden.’ No more of that, please call me Sam.” He looked at Cynthia. “And as to the rest of your offer—I accept.”

  She exhaled relief.

  “So do I,” she said.

  The three of them walked past the mahogany wainscoted corridor
to his home office where the window had a view of the Watergate’s interior courtyard. The computer and printer were already turned on. Shackton fed the pages into the top of the printer and mouse-clicked instructions to print and simultaneously scan a copy of each image into a new file that he called “The DJF.” He quickly typed his memo as the pages chugged forward.

  From the doorway, Teagarden tried to suppress his agitation as he watched the pages feed into the scanner. The beeping and whirring of that electronic device were vital to ending his nightmare. He glanced nervously toward the front door, paranoid that police, or federal agents would storm the apartment at that moment, smash the fax machine, throw it to the floor, then make them all disappear.

  Watching each page getting pulled into the whirring mechanics and spit out into the feeder tray felt like religious redemption. It was as though he’d been on an arduous pilgrimage that challenged faith and finally reached the objective, the cathedral of truth where he was blessed and freed from his sins with divine sanctuary.

  Thank you, Mr. Danford Shackton. Thank you, Ms. Cynthia Blair. Thank you, Homeland Security Subcommittee on Cybersecurity, Infrastructure and Security Technologies.

  And finally…

  Thank you, God.

  Sensing that his gratitude verged on spilling into heavy grief, Teagarden walked back to the living room to be alone. He opened the sliding glass door, stepped onto the balcony, and broke down sobbing as the sun rose over the nation’s capital. He wept for eleven-year-old Billy Carney, for his friend Stu Shelbourn, Stu’s son, and for Svetlana. And he wept for the victims of Operation Over Easy: President John F. Kennedy, civil rights leader Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and Senator Robert F. Kennedy, not to mention the 58,000 who died serving their country in Southeast Asia. They, too, were victims of heinous deception.

  Shackton was right. This file really was a Rosetta Stone in reverse. It proved the existence of a program that recruited young men with marginal personalities, borderline schizophrenics raised in brutal homes who knew only lies, psychological abuse, and violence. They were probably assigned managers who regularly called and visited them over the years, sent them on bogus training excursions, told them they were being groomed for important missions, and were on track to become secret agents or undercover spies with a license to kill. One was actually sent through back-channels to the USSR to pose, emphasis on the word pose—as a Soviet enthusiast while believing himself to be an actual undercover American spy. It was now apparent that his Soviet trip was a setup that, when the time came, would make him look like the marginal cuckoo he actually was. A second of the young men would, after he committed assassination, try to persuade anyone who’d listen that he was managed and financed by a mysterious controller named Raul. And then there was the Christian Palestinian.

  Teagarden couldn’t help but wonder why the people of the twentieth century didn’t fit the pieces together. Whatever the reason, they didn’t. They believed the relentless story being fed to them: Communist grudge case, racist loner with a rifle, Palestinian psycho with an Israeli beef.

  Teagarden wiped streaming tears from his cheeks; his tongue tasted the liquid bitterness of salt. To the east, the Washington Monument rose against the glare of the sun. To the west, early morning joggers maneuvered in and out on the trails of Rock Creek Park where they were getting a cardio workout ahead of their day at the office. Below on Virginia Avenue, traffic was still thin at that early hour.

  That’s when he saw the truck.

  The next few moments stretched into a millennium and compressed into a microsecond. The world stopped as it spun out of control; he was paralyzed with shock.

  The truck—parked a block away on the other side of Virginia Avenue—advertised Durgan’s Lawn & Garden Service. Then his brain took in the whole scene: man directly below—running…on cellphone…man on roof of dormitory…rifle…man on street frantically pointing…sniper on dormitory roof…man shouting…rifle…cellphone… sniper…Washington Monument…joggers…rifle…sniper…rifle…sniper…rifle…

  “Here are the originals,” Shackton said, stepping onto the balcony. Cynthia stood behind him, smiling with confidence that they had made the right decision.

  Teagarden snapped from his trance. He gripped Shackton by the shoulders and yanked him hard into the living room, simultaneously knocking Cynthia down and away from the balcony. They fell together like graceless children in a game of roughhousing gone wrong.

  That’s when the sniper fired.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Key West, FL

  He had some play time.

  McCanliss knew it would take a day or two before Donnursk realized that Key West was Teagarden’s last option. Of course, there was always a chance that “Dunno” Durgan would corner and kill the fox somewhere between New Jersey and South Florida. But this particular fox had successfully eluded everyone, including him. That was a first. For that, he respected Teagarden as the only consequential failure of his career. The odds were on his side. He was gambling that an amateur like Donnursk wouldn’t get close to a man as smart as Teagarden—or as lucky.

  But it would take a while before he could move the truck that far south, so he took some leisure time. He arranged to have this Pangolin hippie take him up in the DC-3 the next day. A one-hour flight in the classic aircraft while sitting in the co-pilot’s seat would cost him seven hundred bucks. But what did he care? His days on earth were numbered. So, why not? It would be fun. He deserved at least that much. He deserved to have at least one last pleasurable moment.

  After breakfast, he casually strode the quiet streets of Old Town. The weather was warm, but not unbearable. He walked through the cemetery, glancing at tombstones and above-ground burial vaults. Many were works of sculpted art, eroded by the ages. It was the final resting place of many victims of the Battleship Maine, which contributed to the start of the Spanish-American War. There was Ernest Hemingway’s favorite bartender, and a local waitress whose tombstone read I told you I was sick.

  “Cute.”

  He imagined what his own tombstone might read. If he were buried in this cemetery, he’d probably get only the basics:

  Harry McCanliss

  1956-2019

  Or maybe:

  Here Lies Harry McCanliss

  1956-2019

  He Was Sick Too

  It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have a stake in the wording. Neither did he care. He didn’t believe in God. Life was temporary; death was permanent. A dead body was a cadaver. It’s not resting in peace. When a body dies, no spirit pops out to fly like Tinker Bell to heaven, nirvana, Valhalla or any other fantasy paradise. Those were the facts. Everything else was total delusion of the flock whose sole job it was to be shorn by the shepherd when their turn with the shears arrived.

  South of the cemetery on Olivia Street, he walked past the house just as she arrived pushing a baby stroller. That could mean several things. She’s off duty on Fridays, works a late shift, or had been placed on leave pending resolution of her father’s situation. He guessed it was the latter. The U.S. Navy was not known for letting anyone facing troublesome controversy get anywhere near a four-hundred-million-dollar fighter jet or a five-billion-dollar aircraft carrier.

  She was young, in excellent physical condition with broad-shoulders, high cheekbones, an aquiline nose and brown, deep-set eyes. Her hair was short and tight, nearly like a man’s.

  “Pardon me, is the public beach in this direction?”

  “Walk down Grinnell Street,” she said with a nod and speaking in a tone neither friendly nor curt.

  “Thank you. You have a cute baby.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Washington, D.C.

  The first shot struck Danford Shackton in the chest, slightly off-center.

  He fell to the floor on his back, gasping for air. The gaping wound to the left of his sternum alternated between gurgling
and sucking. A great volume of blood seemed to be everywhere in an instant as though a plasma-filled piñata had burst.

  Teagarden and Cynthia dragged him from the open window. Two seconds after they began pulling, a mere four seconds after they collectively fell to the floor, the light went out of Shackton’s eyes.

  The second shot hit Cynthia as she was still kneeling, still clinging to Shackton’s left arm. It pierced her left calf and continued on an angled trajectory into the dark oaken flooring where it burrowed a shallow tunnel that sent up a flight of splinters stretching five feet across the room. She fell backward, clutching her leg, her own crimson blood flowing into Shackton’s.

  Teagarden threw his arms in the air as though surrendering. He stepped back one baby step, then another, and another until he bumped the wall beside the baby grand piano on the opposite side of the living room.

  The third shot puffed into the couch upholstery.

  The fourth slammed the wall, six inches from Teagarden’s head, slightly rattling a Tiffany sconce.

  The fifth opened a small hole in the back wall, continuing into the kitchen where it concluded with a dull metallic thud, probably in the stainless steel refrigerator.

  Oddly, no one cried out. Except for the sucking flow of blood in Shackton’s chest, and whizzing sounds, the assault happened in complete silence.

  Then the mute button was released.

  Her piercing shriek was so loud that it snapped him from his own paralysis. He dove behind the couch and crawled to her. Not knowing if it was the best thing to do under the circumstances, but unable to make any other decision, he forced his straining knees to kneel. He picked her up, cradled her in his arms, and hurried to the front door as one more shot popped into the wall behind him. The elevator was still there, waiting for them. Inside, the button for the parking garage level was so low on the panel, he could barely lean down to push it while holding her.