The Firefly

by P. T. Deutermann

  The air was misty, with an underlying layer of cold air. The skylight was on the back side of the roof, so he continued past his house, turned the corner, and came back to it via the alley. He’d left the light on in the master bedroom and could see light through the skylight, but not the fact that there was now a three-foot-square hole along one side of the skylight’s frame. Everything was as he had left it. But when he got back into the house through the back door, he was surprised to hear a cell phone chirping somewhere in the house.

  When Swamp got back up to the apartment, there were two messages on his voice mail. One was from a rather harried-sounding Gary, with the address on Capitol Hill. Finally! The other was from Bertie, asking if there were any developments. He called Bertie but couldn’t get through the counterintelligence directorate’s operator: Mr. Walker was currently unavailable, but he could leave a message. As patiently as he could, Swamp identified himself and said simply that the German had been located. He gave the operator the number for his apartment phone.

  He went down to his Rover and found his city map. By the beam of the dome light, he located the address. He tried to remember what the perimeter for the security zone was, but he wasn’t sure he had it right. Even so, the address looked to be about a mile from the Capitol. Very close to his target. He took the map back upstairs, only to find he’d missed Bertie’s return call. He went through the drill again with the Agency operator, waited five minutes, and then Bertie called back.

  “Where is he?” Bertie asked without preamble.

  “Right up on Capitol Hill,” Swamp said, and read out the address. “About a mile from the Capitol itself.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Bertie muttered. “Good damn work here, Mr. Consultant. What do you want to do now?”

  “I’m waiting for the District cops to call back. They want this guy for a cop killing. They’re more than ready to move.”

  “Is the German likely to survive the arrest?”

  “Depends, especially if he does something dumb. But there’s another problem. They’ll need a warrant.”

  “Don’t they already have one?”

  “They would, except for all this inauguration security. Every cop in town’s getting dragged into that. Plus, this would be a tough night to get a warrant, and the courts are probably closed down by now. So we’re probably looking at a twenty-four-hour delay, maybe more.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Bertie said. “You up to doing a little recon first, though? Make sure there’s someone actually there?”

  “Thought about that, but let me talk to the Homicide cops first,” Swamp said. “That address is very close to the security zone. Not a place for Lone Rangers tonight, as nervous as everyone is up there.”

  “True,” Bertie said. “Keep us informed. I need to brief my bosses that we may have him located.”

  Swamp hung up and then checked his voice mail again, but there were no new messages. He looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock. The Metro ran until 1:00 A.M., although there might be schedule changes due to the security plan. He flipped the TV on and watched the evening news, which was giving extensive coverage of the inauguration preparations. A graphic of the lockdown zone came up, and he was able to verify that the address was outside of the perimeter, although not by much.

  He also learned that at midnight tonight, the Metro system would stop running on the line that went by the Capitol. Reagan National would be shut down all day tomorrow, and the entire city would become a TFR zone until Saturday at noon, which meant that no airplanes could come or go into Washington’s airspace except for military top cover. In a related report, the newscaster said that there had been rumors of large Air Force transport movements for the past twenty-four hours along the East Coast but that the Pentagon wasn’t responding to questions about this. Then there were quick clips of the various police and National Guard units that were being mobilized around the city tonight.

  Just as Swamp was wondering if Cullen and Howell would ever be available, the phone rang. It was Jake.

  “You found him?” Jake asked.

  “Found an address rented by the Royal Kingdom Bank on behalf of an E. Hodler, German sculptor.”

  “Hot damn! Although we can’t work it tonight. No one’s available, including Shad and me. But give it to me and then I’ll trade you.”

  Swamp read out the address and then said, “Trade me?”

  “Yeah. My ops center people got a hit, too, while the rest of us were doing a goddamned uniform inspection. They plugged into all those things you suggested, plus our own patrol incident logs. Something Shad suggested. Guess what? A Capitol Hill patrol car stopped an elderly foreigner who was walking around Capitol Hill at noon Tuesday. German passport, name of E. Hodler. A current work visa. Well dressed, carrying a briefcase, which had a newspaper and his lunch in it. Strong accent. Said he was out for some fresh air. He seemed harmless, so they let him go. Suggest anything to you?”

  Swamp felt a sinking sensation in his gut. Oh shit. This guy wasn’t targeting the joint session. He was targeting the inauguration.

  They didn’t have a month. They had less than twenty-four hours. Fuck me, he thought, because Hallory and his people will never believe this.

  “You still there?” Jake asked.

  “I was just swallowing my heart,” Swamp said. “We’ve got to get this to the Secret Service.”

  “Um.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Swamp said. “Can you guys get free to work?”

  “I explored that, got shut down. I’d already told my boss what had happened to you, and so—”

  “And so if it wasn’t good enough for the Secret Service, it wasn’t good enough to get you out of the bag.”

  “More like the chief of D’s not wanting what happened to you happening to him. So we’re all locked in until tomorrow, after all this bullshit is over. And even then, half the department’s gonna be detailed to inauguration parties.”

  “Let me get back to my new boss at the Agency. I’ll try to convince him to call in the Secret Service. They’ve got tons of people up there already.”

  “Sure they won’t just blow you off again?”

  “They might,” Swamp said. “Especially when they hear the source. But I think it’s my duty to try.”

  “Duty?” Jake said. “To the guys who shit on you? Then do it by phone, man. That way, they won’t be tempted to bag your ass up and put you in a rubber room out in Saint Elizabeth’s until it’s all over.”

  “Good point,” Swamp said. “Although that’s not likely.”

  “You didn’t see the agent who came to brief us. Talk about having your hair on fire. Stay away from those people tonight. Let your new bosses drop the dime.”

  Swamp nodded. “Goddamn, Jake. I know this whole thing has been an evidentiary house of cards all along, but what if there is some gomer up there getting ready to do something like that?”

  “He’s gonna have a hell of time getting at the Capitol, I’ll tell you that,” Jake said. “The feds have that whole area shrink-wrapped. The District cops are the middle barrier. None of our people allowed in or near the building.”

  “Could he do it with a truck bomb? Hezbollah-style?”

  “No way. No vehicles anywhere. The building scrubbed once an hour for explosives. No way to get something in there.”

  “Unless the bomb is already in there. Down deep. In the congressional subway tunnels or—”

  “You know they’ve checked all that,” Jake said. “And sealed it. Besides, what bomb? What freaking guy? Nobody believes us!”

  “Yeah, I know, I know. Lemme go. I got a call to make.”

  Swamp confirmed he had the number for Jake’s cell phone, and then he called Bertie, hit the usual wall, and hung up to wait for a call back. But it wasn’t Bertie who called back; it was the same operator he’d been dealing with. Mr. Walker was in conference and was not to be disturbed. “Is there a message?” she asked.

  Swamp identified himself and s
aid, “You need to break him out of that meeting. This is urgent. Really urgent.”

  “You’re a consultant?”

  “Yes?”

  “Doesn’t work that way for consultants, Mr. Morgan. Message?”

  Swamp hesitated, trying for some oblique wording. “Tell him…tell him, um…Shit.”

  “‘Shit’?”

  “No, no—tell him that I think the party’s Friday, not a month from now, and I’m going to go have a look. Tonight.”

  There was a moment of silence as the operator wrote it down. “‘Having a look tonight.’ That it?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. He’ll know what that means. I hope.”

  “Okay, got it.”

  “He can reach me on the cell number he issued me.”

  The operator, obviously used to oblique messages, acknowledged and hung up. Swamp put down the phone with another sinking feeling in his gut and sighed. Jake was right. If he tried to get to Hallory or even McNamara tonight, one or both of them would detonate and then send a psych team to pick him up. Find a judge at home. Recalled pensioner, Your Honor, just dying to stay on active duty, conjures up this wild-ass theory about a bomb plot. Keeps banging on about it even though there’s no solid evidence and everybody tells him it’s a firefly. Guy gets sent home but won’t go, and now he’s truly delusional, claiming his phantom German assassin is going to bomb the inauguration instead of his other crazy-ass speculation about the speech to the joint session. We need a committal order, please.

  And at the moment, he had to admit he didn’t know if this Hodler was even there. Just as Bertie had suggested, he ought to go see. Then cry wolf and take his chances.

  He looked out the window and tried to imagine the network of edgy federal agents roaming the security zone around the Capitol. Even though he was working for the Agency, just claiming to be a consultant for the Agency to any of the Secret Service guys would bring an instant rolling of eyes. Sure you are, mate. He picked up the Agency credential folder and looked at the identification documents inside. He’d never seen a real CIA identification card. Would this thing convince a Secret Service agent? Should he even take it along? If a local cop stopped him up there, it might be useful. But if the Secret Service even saw his name, there was probably an order out from Hallory’s office to bag his ass.

  Screw it, he’d leave it. He’d just be a citizen tonight. All he was going to do was have a look at the house. See if it was occupied, lighted, or what. Then get the hell out of there. If anybody asked, he was out for a walk. It’s a free country, right? Used to be, anyway.

  He took his new cell phone anyway, even though it probably wasn’t fully charged. Better than nothing. Then he went to get the Rover. He’d have preferred taking the Metro, but he wanted that panic button handy.

  A telephone? Heismann thought. What telephone? Then he remembered—the cell phone in the box. But he hadn’t turned it on yet. It wasn’t time. So what is this? How could it be ringing?

  He hurried upstairs and located the phone, still in its case by the box of tools. Remembering Mutaib’s instructions, he hit the talk button but did not speak. He put the phone to his ear but heard nothing. Then he looked in the phone’s illuminated text screen. Two words appeared: Warning. Intruders.

  He hit the button to end the call and the light went out in the text window. From all appearances, the phone had gone back to sleep. He put the phone down on a small table in the corner of the room. Then he remembered what Mutaib had said about the thing self-destructing. But that was supposed to happen after the midnight call. What the hell was going on here? He moved the phone over to where the split blocks of marble were stacked and put it down on top of some marble. If it melted, then nothing would be damaged.

  Intruders. Assuming Mutaib had sent the warning, it must mean that someone was coming here to the house. Surely Mutaib was not warning him about his own people and their deadly little present in the fuel tank. He became aware of all the lights that were on in the house, and he began turning them off, upstairs and downstairs, leaving only one small light on in the kitchen. Then he went to the bedroom and got his gun and a flashlight. No, no guns. Not tonight, with the streets crawling with security people. The Taser. He got the rig out of his closet, stripped off his coat, and put on the power pack. He checked all the connections and then put his coat back on. He found his watch cap and went out the back door. If police or security people were coming, he didn’t dare get trapped inside the house. He would check his perimeter, then wait outside in the dark for a while, see what happened.

  Forty minutes later, Swamp walked out of the parking lot of the Capitol South Metro station, through the concourse area, and into a foggy yet surprisingly nippy January night. He was stopped by two uniformed police officers and asked for identification. He showed his West Virginia driver’s license and said that he was going to visit a friend, then gave them the address of the town house. The cops nodded him through, reminding him that the last train going back over to Virginia would be through this station at 11:30. They were obviously assuming he had taken a train.

  He walked east on D Street, intent on not bumping up against the security cordon around the Capitol and its grounds. This was one night he didn’t need to run into any of Hallory’s people out here on the street. He was wearing woolen pants and a long-sleeved shirt under a dark woolen parka. He had his government-issue weapon in one pocket of the parka and a small flashlight and his personal cell phone, set to vibrate, not ring, in the other. He’d had some second thoughts about leaving his Agency identification credentials back at the apartment, but he finally figured that if he did get picked up, he didn’t want to involve the Agency, since Bertie had not actually ordered him to do this. Sounded good anyway.

  He had rented a row house up here in the Capitol Hill area a long time ago, when he first came to Washington, so he knew the general layout of the neighborhood, with its interior alleys and double garages. His plan was to scout the house from the street and then go down the alley behind it to see what he could see. If he could confirm that someone was in the house, he’d back out and call Cullen. If he couldn’t raise the District cops, he’d call Bertie again. And if that didn’t work, he’d call Hallory’s office. No, he wouldn’t. He’d wait for Bertie. Let him do it.

  He thought he could count on the District cops being a lot more responsive than the feds. Rather than risk another embarrassing confrontation with Hallory and his people, get the Homicide cops, who had a personal reason to grab this guy, to come take him into custody tonight. Let the inauguration happen, and then they’d sort it all out the following day. If Swamp’s final leap of logic was right, they’d prevent a terrorist attack during the inauguration. And if he had been wrong all along, Mr. Hodler would be free to go as soon as he convinced the District Homicide squad he hadn’t been involved in Cat Ballard’s killing or the attack on Connie Wall. They had some hair and fiber samples from both crime scenes, so they could develop tangible evidence if it was there. Or they could always deport him under the antiterrorism statutes, which would solve the problem just as well. And as for the Saudi money angle, there were people at DHS who could work that problem.

  One thing Swamp was not going to do was to try to enter the town house. Take a quick look, front and rear, see if it looked lived in, back out, and then call for the cavalry.

  Heismann climbed the wooden partition that divided his part of the back porch from that of his next-door neighbor. He then crept along the middle fence to her side of the garage. If she was like him, the alley door would be locked but not the yard door, and it wasn’t. Her garage was exactly like his, only with more cardboard boxes stored along the walls. She’d been driving a small Japanese import tonight, so there was plenty of room for car and storage. From her part of the garage, he could watch the back of his house through the small window in the yard door, although he still couldn’t see out into the alley. Unless…

  He went to her garage door, tripped the inside latch, and raised the d
oor as quietly as he could. Light from the alley flooded in. Too much light, and besides, in this neighborhood, no one would leave a garage door cracked open at night. Any police car cruising the alley would investigate that. Then he had an idea: He could pull the door back down but leave it cracked at the bottom. Then rearrange the cardboard boxes to create a hiding place in her half of the garage. He could watch the house through the window, but if he heard someone in the alley, he’d get behind the boxes and wait for the prowler to discover that the garage door was unlocked.

  Yes. That would work. He pulled the door down again, doing it slowly to mask the rattling sound, and then set about building a hide. In the back of his mind, he kept wondering: Who will the “intruders” be, and how did Mutaib know they were coming? He had the uneasy sense that he was misunderstanding something here.

  Swamp slowed his pace as he entered the block where the house ought to be. Checking the house numbers, he crossed the street so that he would be on the opposite side from his target. Most of the houses had lights on, and every one of them had shades fully drawn on the street-level windows. Cars were parked close together, and he wondered how some of them would ever get out. There was no traffic about, nor any other pedestrians. Given the foggy, chilly weather, he wasn’t too surprised, but he was worried that he might be conspicuous on the empty street.

  As he drew abreast of the house, he stopped and bent down to retie his shoelaces. The house was a duplex, and the only light showing was through the vertical windows flanking the front doors. The duplex appeared to have been restored recently, and the facade was freshly painted and neatly trimmed. He didn’t see any signs of the Suburban, but there was always the alley garage. He kept walking, passing the midblock alley to his right, and then turned left at the corner, crossed the street, and went halfway down the block to the alley. He paused before entering the alley, looking around to see if anyone was obviously watching him, but there was no one about. The houses all seemed to be settling into a normal workday-evening routine. A dog started barking in the next block, and he could just barely hear the hum of traffic out on the broad ceremonial boulevards beyond the Capitol, whose upper dome glowed in floodlights about a mile away.